


Railway Children

by Arwriter



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Arthur Whump, Blood, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Family, Found Family, Hurt/Comfort, Past Abuse, Seperation, Trains, Young Arthur Morgan, Young Dutch van der Linde, Young Hosea Matthews, Young gang, hurt Arthur
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-26
Updated: 2019-05-12
Packaged: 2020-02-04 09:39:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 25,272
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18601912
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arwriter/pseuds/Arwriter
Summary: Arthur is just beginning to learn how important his new family is to him, still struggling to understand how he could possibly be important to men like Dutch and Hosea. But the world seems determined to rip his happiness away, the dark side of mankind working tirelessly to keep a family separated.





	1. Chapter 1

Arthur didn’t think he would ever understand the violent urges some men seemed to have, or why he always ended up on the receiving end of them. 

If he had been shooting at them, robbing them, even looking at them the wrong way, then he supposed he could understand. People did what they had to do to survive, and children weren’t treated any different from any other robber.

He’d had his fair share of beatings from men who had caught Arthur with his hand in their bags, either knocking him out cold, chasing him out of town, or leaving him with a few painful bruises and throwing him back onto the street like a bag of trash. 

Things had been different since he’d met Dutch and Hosea, since they’d started teaching him, caring for him, let him be something more than a worthless street urchin. 

They were the first men he’d found himself trusting, the first people he’d been able to call family since his father’s death. But they weren’t Lyle Morgan. They didn’t look at him like a burden, didn’t hurt him, didn’t treat him like anything less than their own son. 

Arthur wasn’t a small, sickly street orphan anymore. He’d grown in the year he’d been with the two outlaws, gaining weight and newfound strength thanks to proper meals and warm beds. He no longer looked like a ghost walking amongst the living, and people’s eyes no longer went through him like one, pretending he didn’t exist. Nobody was leaving him to starve in his sleep, kicking him aside like a waste of space.

But it didn’t change what he was. A child in a cruel, violent world of cruel, violent men, and tonight he’d been left alone in the dark streets like he had been for so many years. 

Arthur pressed himself further back against the wall as the man before him grabbed his wrists, suddenly wishing, for the first time in over a year, to be small and unnoticeable again. 

He fought furiously, snarling and kicking, wincing at the pain of the new bruise decorating his face, stinging unbearably in constant, throbbing waves. 

The man before him wasn’t moving, towering above Arthur with a dangerous sneer, keeping him prisoner against the brick wall. 

He opened his mouth to scream, feeling trapped and weak like he had so many times before, but suddenly there was a second man pressing a dirt-stained hand over the boy’s mouth, and Arthur’s calls were silenced, leaving him almost completely immobile. 

“Stop fighting, boy,” one of them snarled, Arthur only pulling harder at his wrists. “We ain’t gonna hurt you, we just wanna talk.” 

They didn’t sound like men who had any intention other than a violent one, Arthur recognizing the tone almost immediately. He kicked out, boot finding his captor’s knee, hitting bone with a hollow thud. 

The hands around his wrist only loosened slightly, and Arthur was rewarded with a punch to the gut for his efforts. His knees buckled as the second man’s fist buried into his stomach, but he refused to let himself whimper, still thrashing and screaming into the man’s palm. 

“Be  _ quiet,  _ kid,” he snarled, tightening his hold on Arthur’s jaw, pressing him painfully into the brick wall. “You Dutch’s boy?” 

And that finally made Arthur fall still and silent, stomach dropping at the words. Nobody ever knew Dutch’s name. Not his  _ real  _ name. And if these men did, it would only bring trouble they didn’t need, not in a small town with promises of easy jobs. 

The man turned his head to gaze at the building, noises, lights, and voices filtering through the side window, and Arthur’s stomach twisted as he realized that even if he had managed to scream, there would be no way for Dutch or Hosea to hear him. 

They’d promised they wouldn’t be gone long, slipping into the saloon to see what they could weasel out of the drunken locals, Arthur promising to wait quietly outside until they returned. 

“He in there?” the man asked, and Arthur quickly shook his head, knowing the frantic lie wouldn’t do any good. “No? He leave you all alone?” 

Arthur could only glare, hating the icy, patronizing tone, hated the way it made him shudder and scan the end of the alley for one of the outlaws, a lawmen, a stranger, anyone. The hand on his face tightened, forcing Arthur to look into his captor’s eyes. 

“Why don’t you and I take a ride? There’s someone who wants to meet you.” 

Arthur didn’t give himself time to think, pushing against the hand over his mouth and biting down on soft skin, the taste of dirt and sweat making him gag. 

But it had the desired effect, the man pulling away with a yelp, and Arthur was able to land another desperate kick to the man holding his wrists, just managing to twist out of his grasp. 

He started for the street, heart hammering in his ears, reaching for the gun in his belt as he ran.

But before he could wrap his fingers around the handle, a heavy weight landed on his back, a hand in his hair shoving him face first onto the ground, keeping him on his stomach. 

“Stop fighting, boy,” the man above him hissed, keeping Arthur’s face in the ground, muffling his useless screams. Someone suddenly grabbed his hands in a bruising grasp, Arthur’s eyes widening when he felt the burn of a rope against his skin. “We ain’t asking again.”

Arthur’s struggles turned frantic, realizing that whatever these men planned on doing to him would be worse than any drunk beating. Nobody would be able to find him, nobody would even think to look. Dutch and Hosea would probably just assume he’d finally gotten fed up and set out on his own. 

He did everything he could to pull his hands away as one of the men tried to tie his wrists together, crying out as a knee dug itself into his back, a burly hand pressing against his skull. 

There was a glint of silver in the corner of his eye, a small knife hovering over his face, and Arthur forced himself to fall silent, hating how his blood ran cold, hating how he suddenly had to blink away tears. He felt helpless, overpowered so easily like he was nothing more than a worthless, starving kid on the street. 

The rope around his wrists tightened, and Arthur couldn’t help but whimper as the weight above him only painfully dug into his back. 

“You ready to come quietly, kid?” 

Arthur couldn’t nod, could hardly move with the way he was being pressed against the ground, barely able to pull in a shaky breath. He wanted to  _ kill  _ these men. He wanted to break out of their hold and stab them in the eyes with their own knives. 

But he was too weak, too small compared to the men on top of him, and there was nothing he could do except lie there and wait for the worst. 

“Excuse me, gentlemen!” 

Arthur couldn’t help but smile, closing his eyes as the crushing relief brought tears to his eyes, pulling in shuddering breaths around mouthfuls of dirt. 

The hold on him suddenly loosened, just enough for Arthur to crane his neck to see what was happening. 

Dutch was at the end of the alley, smiling politely, calm, but Arthur recognized the gleam of almost possessive rage in the man’s eyes. 

“This ain’t your business, mister,” one of the men above him said. “Turn around and walk the other way.”

“That’s just a boy you’ve got there,” Dutch said, taking a step closer. “I’m not going to ask you again.” 

“Look, mister--” 

There was the all too familiar click of a loaded weapon, Arthur forcing himself not to laugh aloud when he felt the man tense, staring down Dutch’s barrel. 

“Let him go,” he growled.  _ “Now.  _ Or there’ll be a bullet in your head.” 

Arthur wanted to tell Dutch to put a bullet in their ugly heads  _ anyway,  _ but he knew better than to say anything with the knife still inches from his face. And in a new town full of potential, they couldn’t risk causing a scene. 

The pressure suddenly left his back, both men backing up with their hands in the air, but Arthur still couldn’t find his footing with his hands held tight against his back. He listened as the men turned to run like the cowards they were, their footsteps fading. 

Someone was crouching beside him and Arthur flinched before he could stop himself, pushing down the lingering panic as Dutch pulled out his own knife, moving to tear through the ropes digging into his skin. 

“You alright?” Dutch asked, moving back as Arthur scrambled to his knees, hoping the man couldn’t see the way his hands shook against his will. 

“Sure,” he muttered, staring at his boots. “Thanks.” 

Dutch said nothing and stood, still watching Arthur carefully. He held out a hand, but Arthur refused the help, pulling himself to unsteady feet. 

“You sure you’re--?” 

“Jesus,  _ yes.”  _ Talking pulled at the bruise decorating his jaw, and Arthur fell silent with a hiss of pain, pressing a hand to his throbbing face. 

He risked a glance up at Dutch, taken aback by the sudden flash of anger, face growing cold and hard. Dutch’s eyes went to the other end of the now quiet alleyway, and for a moment Arthur thought he might go after the men and shoot them after all. 

“It’s nothing,” he assured, stuffing his hands in his pockets. “They, uh...they knew who you were, Dutch. Said your name.” 

Dutch turned back to him, eyebrows raised, and Arthur quickly grew defensive, speaking again before Dutch had the chance. 

“I didn’t tell them anything. I wasn’t going to, I swear, I wouldn’t--” 

“I know you wouldn’t, son,” Dutch said, his tone impossibly gentle, silencing Arthur easily. “I ain’t angry at you, I’m angry at whoever thinks it’s ok to  _ hit  _ a  _ child.”  _

Arthur scoffed. “Then you’re angry at a whole lot of folks.” 

The empty anger melted from Dutch’s gaze, replaced with a gentle sympathy. It didn’t make him feel small, not like so many other strangers had for so long, it just made him feel wanted, like somebody actually gave a damn about him. 

Arthur still wasn’t sure he understood why. Most wouldn’t spare a second glance to a bruised and battered boy on the street. For so long, nobody had. He didn’t understand the world’s violence and hatred, but he couldn’t quite grasp its kindness either. 

It made him furious, scared and doubtful, hating the way he couldn’t help but occasionally mistrust the family he’d learned to depend on. 

“Come on,” Dutch was saying, hand on Arthur’s shoulder, leading him out of the alley. “Hosea and I think we’ve found something.” 

The night was warm, a gentle breeze guiding them back to the last piece of their awaiting family, Hosea leaned against the saloon wall, eyes wandering through the empty streets. He looked up as Dutch and Arthur approached, shoulders dropping with a smile. 

_ “There  _ you are,” he said, starting forward. Hosea paused, brow furrowing when the lantern light from the window illuminated the fresh bruise. “Are--what happened?” 

“Arthur made some new friends,” Dutch explained, letting the other man kneel to Arthur’s level. “He says they recognize us.” 

“Who were they?” 

The question was directed at him, and Arthur could only shrug. “Don’t know,” he muttered, staring at the ground. 

“I’ve made a lot of men angry, Hosea,” Dutch pointed out. “It was only a matter of time until we ran into one of the poor bastards.” 

Hosea frowned, seeming unconvinced, still eyeing Arthur warily. He reached out a hand, frowning when Arthur flinched back. 

“Let me see.” 

“I’m fine.” 

“Arthur, let me  _ see.”  _ There was no arguing with Hosea, something he’d learned months ago, no matter how headstrong or defiant he tried to be. Arthur relented, dropping his hands to let Hosea’s fingers ghost over his jaw, gently tilting his chin back to get a proper look. 

“Quite a hit you took,” he said, like Arthur hadn’t noticed. “It’s not serious, you’ll probably just be sore for a few days.” 

“I know.” 

Hosea pulled his hand away, still watching Arthur with the kind, sympathetic gaze he still didn’t understand why he deserved. 

“If you need--” 

“I  _ know,”  _ Arthur snapped. “Jesus, I’ve been punched before, Hosea. It was just a stupid mistake, I told you, I’m  _ fine.”  _

The men fell silent, still watching him, and Arthur did everything he could to bite back his unreasonable anger. All those people for so many years were exactly the same, hateful and abusive, leaving him to die or doing all they could to speed up the process themselves. 

Those men in the alley had been like so many others, easily cruel towards an abandoned child, reawakening memories Arthur had tried to forget.

And yet here these men were, outlaws, cold and dangerous, treating him with a gentleness he knew he didn’t deserve. Caring for him like he was their own child. He knew it was what he wanted, knew he would die to protect his found family, but he still didn’t know  _ why.  _ Dutch and Hosea had each other, endless possibilities at their fingertips, so why did they care so much about  _ him?  _

Arthur knew they would never hurt him, but so many had before he couldn’t help but hesitate. He knew it would cost him, destroy the one good thing he’d managed to hold onto, but he couldn’t help himself. 

“Let’s get a room,” was all Dutch said, he and Hosea hardly seeming fazed by the outburst. “Get a real night of sleep before we leave early tomorrow.” 

Arthur perked up, latching onto the hopeful excitement in Dutch’s tone. The two men started down the street and Arthur hurried to match their pace, briefly forgetting his discomfort. “Where’re we going?” 

Dutch looked back to him, familiar smile plastered on his face, and Arthur found himself matching it. 

“A train, son,” he explained, sounding almost like an excited child. “A train heading through quiet, open country.”

“Heard about it from a couple of locals,” Hosea chimed in, and Arthur could practically see the older man calculating the different outcomes in his head. “We do it right, there should be good money in it for us. You up for it?” 

The question was genuine, both men watching him, understanding. Arthur swallowed, nodding. He wasn’t going to let tonight keep him from being useful. 

“I’m ready,” he promised, walking alongside the outlaws, set at ease by their grateful smiles. “Whatever you need me to do.”

“Good,” Dutch said, leading them down the street. “We leave at dawn.” 

  
  
  


Arthur decided he never wanted to do another train robbery as long as he lived. 

They were terrifying, no matter how prepared he convinced himself he was, no matter how dangerous other jobs were, there was something about jumping from his saddle, grasping desperately at the side of the car as he pulled himself to the vibrating platform that he just couldn’t quite get over.

Train robberies always seemed destined to go wrong. Between being trapped between the concealing walls and their constant bad luck, it was only a matter of time until something went awry. 

They’d been separated when the shooting had started, Arthur and Hosea checking the storage cars while Dutch took what he could off the passengers. There were jewels and cash-not a lot but more than enough-all quickly forgotten as Arthur dropped to the ground, fumbling for his gun.

He’d thought it was law, but he should have known better from the eerie silence of the firing men outside, and Hosea’s assurances that they would have more than enough time to get in and out undetected. 

There was gunfire from inside the train, the noises blending together into one jumbled mess, impossible to tell who was who. Arthur unholstered his own weapon and started for the door. 

He skidded to a stop as it was yanked open, the barrel of a shotgun suddenly thrust in his face, hollow laugh drowned out by his own beating heart. 

“Where do you think you’re going kid?” the man asked, voice achingly familiar from the night before, and Arthur froze. 

They should have left town as soon as they were recognized, forgotten the money as soon as it was clear something wasn’t right. 

The door behind him slid open, two more men slipping inside, guns raised, snickering as Arthur visibly faltered, hands tightening around his weapon. 

“Put it down, kid,” one of the men said. “We don’t need to shoot you just yet.” 

_ Yet.  _ Arthur took a breath, hating how he was once again reduced to a helpless, trembling child, and let his gun clatter to the floor. The men with the shotgun stepped forward, roughly shoving Arthur to the crates in the corner. He said nothing, and Arthur let himself sink to the floor. 

The train was quieting, and Arthur realized with a new sickening dread that he couldn’t hear Dutch or Hosea. Which meant they were trying to get to him, or they’d already been captured. 

Or they’d left without him. 

Arthur blinked, breath catching in his throat at the thought of being abandoned here to die. He tried to push it away, the thought dark and traitorous, but he couldn’t help but wonder if their loyalty went as far as his. If leaving behind the street orphan they’d picked up off the street was what saved their life, why wouldn’t they? 

The door opened again and another man stepped inside, Arthur’s blood growing cold when their eyes met. 

He was about Hosea’s age, maybe older, a cruel smile on his face as he stepped inside, adjusting a green tie. He smelled of smoke and whiskey, a did his men, and Arthur couldn’t help but recoil when he stopped in front of him. 

“What’s your name, boy?” 

Arthur looked up, steadily meeting his gaze. “Go to hell.” 

The slap came too quick for him to register, hard and vicious, leaving Arthur’s already bruised face stinging and pounding.  

“You should learn some manners, boy,” the man snarled. He lowered himself to a crouch, close enough for Arthur to feel his breath, wrinkling his nose in disgust. “I hear you’ve been running with old Dutch.” 

Whether Dutch and Hosea had left him or not, it didn’t undo the promise he made. “Who?” 

The man grinned, looking back to his men, incredulous, before standing again. “I see Dutch is letting you run wild. The man’s too soft, ain’t teaching you a damn thing. Children need to be  _ disciplined.”  _

He kicked out, the tip of his boot slamming into Arthur’s stomach. It made him double over in pain, groaning through clenched teeth. But he refused to cry out, still watching the man like a hawk. 

“Arthur!” The familiar call came from outside, tense and panicked, and Arthur let his head fall back against the crate, once again overcome with an overwhelming relief. “Arthur, where are you?” 

Arthur opened his mouth to call out, the words dying in his throat when a gun was pressed against his forehead, cold against his skin. 

The man grabbed him by his shirt and yanked him off his feet, dragging him to the door as one of the others carefully pried it open, gun still trained on the boy. 

“Now,  _ Arthur,”  _ the man holding him said, sickeningly sweet as he reached around to grab Arthur’s chin. “Call out to him. And choose your words carefully.” 

Arthur forced himself to breathe, glancing around the train car. One wrong move and he’d be littered in bullet holes, bleeding out on the floor in seconds. 

“I-I’m ok, Dutch!” he called to the open air. “I’m coming, I’ll--I’ll be right there!” 

“Jesus Christ,” Dutch’s voice was uncomfortably far away, growing more and more distant. “Hurry the hell up, they’re O’driscolls!” 

Arthur froze, eyes widening as the words registered. He’d heard Dutch and Hosea’s stories, their countless warnings, and he suddenly realized he was being held at gunpoint by the man whose brother was dead at Dutch’s hands. 

It took every ounce of self-control not to start screaming for help right then and there. 

The hand on his shirt tightened, Colm O’driscoll lifting him off the floor with ease, pulling him out the door. Arthur fought on instinct, kicking and punching, doing all he could to squirm out of his grip. 

“Come on,” Colm said, the struggles doing nothing to deter him. “This’ll be fun.”

Arthur was carried like he weighed nothing, Colm easily pulling him along, slipping his own gun back in his belt to keep a firm grip. 

It took two men to drag Arthur up the ladder leading to the top of the train, and he quickly stopped his fighting at the dizzying view below him. 

“Careful, boy,” Colm taunted, readjusting his grip on Arthur's collar. “That's a hell of a fall.”

The train was moving too fast, everything a terrifying blur of green and brown. Jumping to a moving train had been bad enough, but now, standing at the top and looking over the edge, the distance made him want to vomit.

The rest of the men were still behind him, weapons ready, and Colm finally let Arthur steady himself on his own feet, a hand still clutching his his arm. 

“Go get Van der Linde and Matthews,” Colm ordered, two of the men still on the platform below. “Tell them we’ve got the kid. Hurry.” 

Arthur tried to lunge forward, desperate to get away, to not let his family get put in this situation because of him, even if fighting just got him killed. He’d jump off the damn train if he had to. 

But then there was a hand twisting in his hair, making Arthur cry out as it yanked upwards, his struggles ceasing as he was forced to keep moving, Colm’s grip refusing to relent. 

At some point, Arthur thought he heard someone else climb onto the top of the train, carefully inching closer, but he wasn’t given the opportunity to watch them approach, Colm suddenly tilting Arthur’s chin back until he was looking the man in the eye, shuddering under his smile. 

The footsteps grew closer and stopped, Colm pulling away from Arthur’s gaze to stare straight ahead, grinning when he saw what was in front of him. 

“Hello again boys,” he said, gleaming eyes sparking with triumph. “I’ve been having a lovely talk with your latest pet project, Dutch.” 

“Colm.” Dutch’s voice was far from the comforting presence it had been the night before. If anything, it just made Arthur more anxious. This was his own fault. He should have tried harder to fight back, whether it got him killed or not. “This is between you and me. Let the boy go.” 

“This is between me and whoever’s stupid enough to listen to a word you say. Kid, you really think these men give a damn about you?” 

Arthur couldn’t speak, struggling to breathe through the odd angle in which his throat was stretched, Colm’s fingers like ice against his skin. 

And then the O’driscoll let out a piercing laugh, the awful noise sending chills down Arthur’s spine, and his head was finally lowered. 

Dutch and Hosea stood a few paces away, too far for Arthur to make it to them safely if he managed to twist out of Colm’s hold, their hands raised and holsters empty. They looked scared, helpless, and absolutely furious. 

“I like him,” Colm said suddenly, Arthur flinching when he felt the man’s hand brush over the skin of his neck. “Arthur, was it? Arthur here’s got a fire in him, Dutch. Reminds me a bit of my brother.” 

“Arthur had nothing to do with that!” Hosea argued. He sounded, for the first time, just as desperate as Dutch. “Your brother knew what he was getting into, Colm. Let him go and we can handle this just the three of us.” 

There was a heartbeat of silence, and for a hopeful moment, Arthur thought Colm might actually listen, that there would be a way out of this. 

But then the hand around his neck tightened, and Arthur found himself being carelessly led forward, closer and closer to the edge of the train. 

“Colm!” 

“Colm, stop!” 

Arthur went back to trying to fight, trying to plant his feet, pulling back in an attempt to at least slow the man down, but Colm kept dragging him forward like a ragdoll, the hand on his neck tightening each time Arthur struggled. 

“I don’t see why you care so much,” he said, loud enough for Dutch and Hosea to hear. Arthur’s eyes widened as he was tilted back, Colm’s hand the only thing keeping him from falling. “It’s just an orphan boy. You can always get another.” 

Fingers suddenly wrapped themselves around Arthur’s neck, squeezing, cutting off his air, and he felt his feet leave the vibrating ground, gasping soundlessly as Colm lifted him with ease. 

Arthur grabbed at Colm’s wrist as he kicked and choked, prying uselessly at the fingers digging into his skin. The man’s grip only tightened painfully, and Arthur stilled, suddenly remembering what would happen if he was dropped. 

He made a pathetic, panicked wheeze, frantically trying to reach something solid, finding nothing under his feet but rushing air. Colm smiled, cruel, dangling him over the deadly edge. 

“Colm!” he was just able to hear Dutch’s bellowing voice, easily able to recognize the terror. “You son of a  _ bitch,  _ I swear to god--” 

“Watch your mouth, Dutch,” Colm snapped. “And don’t move. I can still just as easily put a bullet in him.” 

The vice-like grip on Arthur’s throat loosened, not enough for him to take a breath, but enough for it to briefly feel like he was falling. If he had the air, he would have screamed. 

From over Colm’s shoulder, Arthur could make out Dutch and Hosea, their eyes locked onto him, wide and panicking. He might not understand why he mattered to them, why hardened, unwanted outlaws were the only men in the world who seemed to care if he kept breathing, but he knew he loved them. He knew they were family, had been for a while now, and because of him, it was all coming to an end. 

“Colm,” Hosea tried, voice wavering, begging. “Please, Colm,  _ please.  _ He’s just a boy, leave him alone.”

“The way I see it,” the O’driscoll said, long past listening. “I lost a brother. It’s only fair the two of you lose a son.” 

_ “I  _ killed your brother,” Dutch said, eyes still on Arthur. It was becoming harder to hear, blood rushing to his ears as his face grew numb. “Me, Colm. Punish  _ me. _ Don’t hurt him.” 

Colm was watching them, looking almost amused at the men’s desperation. He turned back to Arthur, still kicking as he gasped, involuntary tears streaming down his face. 

“And what makes him so special?” he asked, frowning when Arthur refused to meet his glare. “Why does  _ he  _ get to run with the great Dutch Van der Linde? The boy don’t look like much. Scrawny and scared, too angry for his own good.” 

“Colm, please--” 

“He don’t look too strong,” Colm observed, lifting Arthur by the neck to get a closer look. “Definitely looks like a survivor, though. What do you boys think?” 

“Colm!” Dutch was screaming, Arthur’s vision turning blurry. “Please, Colm,  _ please!  _ He’s just a kid, let him go!” 

Colm turned back to Dutch, his hold on Arthur finally loosening. 

“Alright,” he said, holding up his free hand. “If you insist, Van der Linde.” 

And suddenly Arthur was being shoved backwards, the hand around his neck gone as his stomach lurched, and he felt himself falling, the terrified screams around him fading. 

  
  
  



	2. Chapter 2

Dutch had begged to an O’driscoll, begged to  _ Colm,  _ hearing his words and not being able to do a damn thing to control them. 

It hadn’t mattered. Nothing had, nothing except Arthur, dangling helplessly by his neck, wide eyes locking onto Dutch, once again the scared, helpless child Dutch had found over a year ago, just barely clinging to life. 

And then Colm had let him go, let Arthur fall, and Dutch had heard Hosea scream, the noise tearing through his breaking heart. 

Dutch couldn’t feel Hosea’s broken sorrow, could no longer feel his fury pulsing through him. He couldn’t grasp onto anything, couldn’t force himself to focus long enough to feel anything, his chest empty and hollow, his mind blank. 

“What’s the matter?” Colm asked, like he’d already forgotten what he’d done. “There’s plenty of gullible orphan boys out there. I’m sure you can find another.” 

“He was just a kid!” Hosea screamed, voice hoarse, and if Dutch had the strength he would have reached out to steady him. “Colm you might have just killed a  _ child!”  _

Colm shrugged, the simple response reawakening some of Dutch’s anger. He was going to  _ kill  _ Colm. Even if he got shot in the process, Colm was going to die, the train where Arthur had fallen stained with O’driscoll blood. 

“Your boy had a lot to learn,” Colm said, Dutch raising his chin to meet the man’s eyes. “No goddamn manners. No respect. Wouldn’t even tell me his damn  _ name.  _ The way I see it, you should be thanking me.”  

Dutch was already moving forward, hands curled into fists, vision turning red. Colm’s men raised their guns, and Hosea grabbed Dutch’s arm, pulling him back. 

“Easy there, Dutch,” Colm said, turning to grin at Hosea. “People seem to have a habit of dying around this man, Mr. Matthews. If I were you, I’d have turned my back long ago.” 

Hosea, wisely, said nothing in response, eyes looking past Colm to scan the passing scenery. He was calculating, Dutch realized idly, whether or not Arthur could survive the fall. 

Dutch couldn’t even bring himself to wonder, couldn’t let himself picture any outcome that didn’t end with Arthur getting back on his feet. 

“He’ll be ok,” he said, hardly noticing he was speaking aloud, not quite sure who he was addressing. “You hear me, Colm? You don’t know him. He’s just fine.”

And furious, no doubt. Arthur still had a long way to go, the two outlaws doing all they could to repair the damage the years on the streets had done to him, the boy starved and weak when they had found them.

His anger was lessening, Dutch and Hosea working to let Arthur control it in a way that was beneficial to everyone, but it didn’t undo what the world had done to him, did nothing to lessen the hurt so many had caused. 

Dutch had seen it in his eyes the night before, cornered and overpowered in that alleyway, enraged and ashamed of his own fear. 

He should let Arthur be the one to kill Colm, let the boy watch the life slowly drain from the man’s eyes, let him take back the control so viciously ripped away from him. 

But he knew better, knew he and Hosea would agree to never let Arthur anywhere near an O’driscoll ever again. 

“I certainly hope so,” Colm said, pulling Dutch back to grim reality. “It’s no fun if he dies so quickly. He doesn’t break every bone in his body, and I’ll be sure we see each other again soon.” 

“Stay the hell away from him,” Hosea spat, talking slow through clenched teeth. “He’s just a  _ boy.”  _

“This is your fault,” Colm shot back, slowly pacing the top of the train. “You filled his head with so many lies he’ll do whatever you want him to. He’ll follow you to the ends of the earth, and for  _ what? _ To boost your egos? To make you a little extra money? If that boy’s dead, I’ve done him a damn favor.” 

“If he’s dead I’ll put you in the ground right next to your brother.” Hosea’s eyes were blazing, Dutch only able to watch in silence. “I swear to god _ ,  _ Colm, you better  _ pray  _ that boy is still alive.” 

Colm raised his eyebrows, jaw tightening at the mention of his brother, and Dutch tensed as the O’driscoll started forward, fingers twitching dangerously over his weapon. 

“Oh, I’m sure he’s alive, Hosea,” he said. “You have to be strong to run with the likes of Dutch Van der Linde. Now it’s simply a question of who gets to him first.” 

Dutch finally found his voice, taking a careful step to plant himself in between Hosea and Colm. “You’re not touching him again.” 

Colm paused, taken aback, genuine confusion plastered on his face, morphing quickly to a look of disgust. 

“Oh, Jesus,” he muttered. “You don’t actually  _ care  _ about the orphan, do you? Christ, Dutch. I knew you were soft but it’s a  _ child.  _ A weak, unwanted street urchin. You ain’t his father. And neither are you, Matthews.” 

Dutch opened his mouth to respond, or maybe lifted a hand to strike the man, but he wasn’t given the chance for either, jumping as a gunshot rang out over the roar of the train. 

One of the O’driscolls dropped, skull hitting the side of the train car with a sickening thud, falling to the rails below. Colm cursed under his breath, finally turning away to focus on the new threat. 

A crowd of horses were barrelling out of the treeline, men with their guns raised, their shouts drifting into the air. Lawmen, stationed outside the town the train was heading for. 

They should have been long gone before the men had a chance to see them, Colm too occupied with torturing a terrified child to think about the patrol. 

“Get  _ down!”  _

It was Hosea, back in control and at Dutch’s side, grabbing his arm to tug him to his knees, more bullets slamming against the train below. 

Colm and the two remaining O’driscolls, the only men on the train with weapons, worked to clear off the patrol, Dutch and Hosea carefully moving to the front of the train, flinching each time a shot rang out. 

They managed to make it to the edge, climbing to the bottom and ducking inside the open door, taking cover behind a pile of crates, pressed up against each other, breathing heavily. 

“We’re almost to the station,” Hosea said, keeping his voice low in Dutch’s ear. “Let Colm deal with the law while we slip out and lay low.” 

“But, Arthur--” 

“We can’t risk leading the law right to him,” Hosea said. “A day at  _ most.  _ We’ll get him back, Dutch. He’ll be ok.” 

The words were for both of their sakes, neither able to let themselves imagine a world where it was any different, where they had let this happen, unable to save Arthur’s life. 

The train squealed, pulled to a stop by a no doubt panicking engineer, gradually pulling into the town’s small train station. The gunshots were dying down, and for the first time in his life  Dutch hoped the O’driscolls were still standing, Colm and his men the only thing keeping the law at bay. 

He risked a glance outside, still against the boxes, watching the nearing town. The train finally came to a stop, wide-eyed civilians gathering their things and running for the doors as they heard the gunshots, the thundering of the law’s horses growing closer.

“Ready?” Hosea asked, meeting Dutch’s gaze, determination pushing down his fear. It felt like forever since it had just been the two of them, the missing part of their family leaving behind a cold, uneasy emptiness. 

Dutch nodded, refusing to let himself believe today was different from any other job, ignoring the ticking clock in the back of his mind. Arthur could hold on, could survive on his own like he had for so long. 

Hosea grabbed his hand and pulled him forward, silently hitting the gravel as they ran, blending into the crowd and dashing into the streets. 

  
  
  


Arthur blinked against the glaring sunlight, unable to stop himself from crying out, the noise lost on his ringing ears. 

His throat felt tight, aching and throbbing as he worked to pull in shaky breaths, his head pounding unbearably as he tried to sit up. 

Fucking O’driscolls. 

He tried to sit up, quickly changing course and falling back against the grass when pain shot through his body, a fiery agony spiking in his arm, making him gasp. His wrist was definitely broken, and based on the sharp pressure wrapping around his chest, his rib was, too. 

He’d been dumped in the grass beside the train tracks, nothing but trees and seemingly endless fields in sight, and Arthur supposed he should be grateful the landing had been as soft as it was. Colm could have easily ended up throwing him off a bridge. 

Dutch and Hosea had been screaming for him, and Arthur had to bite back his panic at the memory of O’driscoll smiles, their smug laughter making him shiver, remembering the men still held at gunpoint. 

They knew what they were doing, the outlaws would find a way out and come back for him. They hadn’t left him behind on that train, they wouldn’t leave him behind now. 

But he couldn’t stay here, lying beside the tracks, open and vulnerable. The law could be close, investigating the latest robbery, or more O’driscolls could still be looking for him. 

With a groan, Arthur forced himself to sit up, the world tilting sideways as the pain worsened in a flash. He gritted his teeth and dragged himself to his knees, squinting to make out his surroundings. 

Moving to the canopy of the trees was out of the question, Arthur painfully aware he didn’t have a chance at making it that far. But there was a cluster of small rocks not far from where he’d been dumped, and he took a breath, pulling himself forward. 

The day was hot and horrible, sweat sticking to his skin, spots dancing in front of his eyes as he grew nauseous from the pain, broken bones grinding against each other as he forced them to move. 

By some miracle, his hands found smooth stone, grasping the rock as he pulled himself the rest of the way, finally allowing himself to fall back against the ground. It wasn’t much, he’d be discovered easily if someone came looking. But there was nothing to do other than wait and hope it was his family who found him. 

Arthur tried to keep his eyes open, cradling his shattered wrist against his aching chest, his body cut and battered and bruised, the pain from Colm’s fingers digging into his neck still lingering. 

But he couldn’t stay awake, the heat and pain dragging him down, his exhaustion the only thing blocking out the pain. His eyelids were too heavy, ignoring his half-hearted commands, falling shut as the dark overtook him. 

  
  


_ “There you are!”  _

The words sounded distant, muffled, Arthur barely given time to register them before something slammed against his broken side, eyes flying open as he screamed, curling in on himself. 

There were boots beside his head, moving closer, and Arthur flinched, trying to figure out how many men were surrounding him. Indecipherable voices swirled into the air, and a hand was suddenly grabbing the collar of his shirt, dragging him to his feet. 

“You hearing me, boy?” the man in Arthur’s face asked, shaking him roughly, succeeding only in worsening the dizziness. He groaned, trying to pull away to no avail, whimpering at the pain in his arm. “Our friends say you’re quite a handful, so why don’t you just shut up and do as you're told?” 

“Come on, you little shit,” another voice said. “Get the kid on the horse, will you?” 

Arthur’s eyes widened, head clearing slightly in his panic. Staying exactly where he’d fallen was the only way Dutch and Hosea would be able to find him again. 

Moving on instinct, Arthur kicked out, punching with his injured hand, feeling a spark of hope when he heard the crack of bone, hand finding something solid. 

He heard laughter, making his face burn, and suddenly the hand on his shirt loosened, sending him crashing back down to the ground. Arthur snarled, still kicking furiously, struggles dying abruptly as a fist slammed against his face, sending his head crashing into the dirt. 

“Let’s go, kid.” He was being grabbed again, crying out as he was lifted, feet no longer finding the ground as he was carried forward. “Colm wants you alive, but I’m sure he won’t mind if we finish the job ourselves.” 

Arthur had to bite back a whimper as he was thrust forward, feet finding a saddle as he was shoved on the O’driscoll’s horse. The man mounted behind him, pressed up against his back, and Arthur frantically scanned the quiet fields, desperately hoping to see Dutch and Hosea riding towards them. 

But everything remained empty and serene, Arthur shuddering when the man held him by his shoulder as they rode forward. 

They hadn’t tied him up, the men apparently not seeing a need to, and he briefly tried to pull away, wondering if he should risk the fall and attempt to slide off the horse. He froze when he heard the click of a gun and felt cold metal against his cheek. 

“Hold still, boy,” the man warned, tightening his hold. “Don’t worry, we found a nice place for us to lie low for a while.” 

“Dutch will kill you,” Arthur warned, finally regaining his voice, hoping the threat didn’t sound as desperate as he thought it did. “Dutch and Hosea are going to ride down here and bash your ugly faces in, you sick bastards!” 

The man didn’t respond, just pressed the gun tighter against Arthur’s face and pushed the horse faster.

They rode through the grass fields, further away from the train tracks, heading the opposite direction the train had gone, taking his family with it. It felt like hours, time moving unbearably slow, the ride jostling each one of his injuries. 

They finally slowed, pulling to a stop in front of an old homestead, quiet and rundown. The windows were smeared and dusty, the wooden walls split and rotted, the grass dry and overgrown, a cellar door locked up around the side. 

“This place abandoned?” the man asked, his hold on Arthur loosening as he turned to his friend. 

“Looks like it,” the other said. “And I think we can handle it if it’s not. Let’s get the kid inside.” 

The gun was gone, Arthur barely given time to take a breath before hands were hooking under his arms, shoving him off the saddle. 

He landed on his back, the impact stealing the air from his lungs, dust and dirt spiraling into the heavy air as the world spun around him. 

Arthur managed to roll over on his stomach, slowly struggling to his knees as he stumbled forward, gritting his teeth against the pain, his mind only on getting as far away as possible. 

But then there was a hand twisting into the back of his collar, yanking him back with enough force to choke him, the man behind him laughing as Arthur’s frantic flailing proved futile. 

He heard the creaking of wood beneath him as he was dragged up the porch, the second man holding the door open, his friend pulling Arthur inside the homestead. He was thrown to the floor, boots scraping against the wood as he tried to steady his fall, still searching desperately for an escape. 

But they’d cornered him, thrown him against the wall, one of the men standing in front of the door, the other planted in front of the window. 

“Let me go,” Arthur growled, voice unsteady, no longer caring how panicked he sounded. “They won’t kill you if you let me go, but right now you’re dead men. You’re  _ dead,  _ they’ll rip you to shreds, they'll--” 

“Kid, no one’s coming for you,” one of the men said, twirling his gun before setting it down on the filthy windowsill. “Van der Linde ain’t finding us. Not before Colm gets his hands on you.” 

Arthur swallowed, tried to reign in his fear, tried to put himself in Dutch’s mindset and find a way out of this, to come up with some sort of plan. 

But he had nothing. He wasn’t Dutch or Hosea, wasn’t a hardened, experienced outlaw. He was just a child, weakened, scared, and alone. 

“Oh, don’t worry, kid,” the man by the window cooed, fake, sickeningly sweet smile on his face. “You’ll see Dutch soon enough. I’m sure Colm’s already put a bullet through his skull.” 

Arthur lost his grip on what little control he still had, fragile resolve snapping at the man’s careless words, forgetting his pain as he pushed himself to his feet, charging forward with a furious scream, the helplessness making him feral. 

The man laughed as something slammed against his Arthur’s back, pushing him down, his chin hitting the wooden floor. He was flipped over onto his back, the man above him straddling his waist, slamming a fist against Arthur’s chest. 

“Calm down, pretty boy,” he said, only looking amused as Arthur kept kicking and punching, the O’driscoll grabbing his arms and holding them against the floor, Arthur crying out as his wrist was moved. “We’ve got plenty of time together, so why don’t you just try and relax?” 

“Get the hell off me!” Arthur refused to let himself cry, refused to let himself dwell on those cold, awful years on the streets. This wasn’t like that. He had people looking for him, people who cared. 

But these were still men, still violent and angry, and unlike last time Dutch had no way of knowing where he was, no way to get to him in time. 

And then there was a gunshot, dull and piercing over the sound of his own labored breathing, and the standing O’driscoll dropped to his knees as the window shattered. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow I spilled hot tea all over myself while editing this I'm in pain send help  
> Thanks for reading!


	3. Chapter 3

“There they are!” 

It was a bigger town than the one they’d left behind, which meant more law, and more eyes watching the train’s every move. Dutch should have known there would be no way for them to slip out undetected. 

Hosea squeezed his hand, a brief moment of warning before he pulled them both into the train station, taking a precious second to close and lock the doors behind them, bullets slamming into the walls as they continued forward. 

Dutch heard someone scream, onlookers frantically backing away from the two armed men pushing their way to the back door. 

Hosea pulled his hand away as he shouldered open the door at the other end of the room, both men unholstering their pistols as they barreled into the street, the yells and orders of lawmen growing louder behind them. 

There was more shouting, more gunshots from the other end of the station, growing distant, and Dutch realized the rest of the law was going after Colm. The man was still breathing with Arthur’s blood on his hands. 

But he couldn’t allow himself to focus on his anger, pushing back the distracting emotions only destined to get him killed. When Hosea and Arthur were safe, the three of them back together, they could decide what they were going to do. 

Hosea needed him alert, needed him strong and by his side as they ran. They’d be of no help to Arthur gunned down and bleeding on the street.

“I see them!” 

Bullets sprayed the brick wall just as Dutch turned the corner, following Hosea down the alleyway, firing blindly over his shoulder. They’d been in this situation countless times before, but all it took was one shot for their luck to finally run out. 

But now they had someone waiting for them, counting on them to make it out of this alive, and Dutch just ran faster, staying at Hosea’s side. 

They turned the corner, rushing into the busy street, ignoring the alarmed, outraged yelps and questions from the oblivious townspeople. The outlaws pushed their way into the crowd, weaving in and out of the passing groups, heads hung low as they fled. 

The gunshots briefly quieted, the lawmen not willing to risk shooting civilians, but Dutch could still hear them shouting, scanning the crowd, footsteps still close. 

They kept moving, Dutch meeting Hosea’s watchful eyes as the other man grabbed his hand again, tugging him forward, moving briskly across the street. 

A gunshot rang out and Dutch jumped, spinning around to see where it had come from, finding nothing but wide, panicked eyes. He thought he heard someone scream, the noise pained and strangled, silenced by the uproar of the crowd, left behind as he followed Hosea towards the nearest alleyway entrance. 

Another shot fired and Dutch turned, aimed, hitting the closest pursuing lawmen in the chest before turning and sprinting down the stone path.

It was a side street in between small apartments and stores, windowsills decorated with plants and flowers, men slumped and sleeping against the brick walls. Hosea led them both forward, pulling Dutch to the end of the pathway. 

They skidded to a stop as two men turned the corner, blocking their path. One held a shotgun over his chest, the other fired his pistol at something behind him before turning to Dutch with a familiar, sickening smile. 

“Hello, boys,” Colm greeted. “Hell of a day it’s turned out to be, huh?”

Dutch raised his gun without a word, pulling the trigger just as Hosea yanked him to the side, shoving him through an open door and slamming it shut behind them. 

He threw himself against the handle, Dutch running to grab a chair from the corner of the room. Hosea moved back as he pushed the furniture up against the door, just as Colm bashed a fist against the wood. 

“You’re a coward, Van der Linde!” Colm snarled, venomous voice muffled by the barricade. “Officers! Officers, they went in here! They tried to kill me, hurry!” 

Dutch cursed under his breath, already running for the stairwell with Hosea at his heels. He could hear footsteps outside, the law pounding against the door, Colm probably already slipping away, unnoticed. 

“Try to find a window,” Hosea advised, the two outlaws clambering up the stairs, wincing with each hollow thud against the door. “And then try not to break your neck.” 

Through the adrenaline, Dutch found himself smirking. “Whatever you say, old man.” 

His legs were aching, breathing becoming labored as they traversed the endless staircase, Hosea panting behind them. There was a crash from a few stories down, the lawmen’s beating on the door finally paying off. 

“Come on,” Dutch urged, reaching behind him for Hosea’s sleeve. “We ain’t letting Colm O’driscoll watch us hang. No goddamn way.” 

They weren’t going to let Arthur become an orphan again. They wouldn’t leave him alone in the world for the second time in his life. 

They made it to a hallway, quiet and abandoned, the surroundings doors shut and locked tight, civilians shutting themselves up in response to the commotion downstairs. 

There was a window at the end of the room, open ajar, the pale yellow curtains stirring gently from the outside breeze. Dutch surged forward, newfound strength in his spark of hope. 

“You’re dead men! You boys will swing, you hear us?” 

“Drop your weapons and put your hands in the air!” 

The voices below them swirled together, growing uncomfortably close, their words all too familiar. Dutch skidded to a stop and pushed the window open the rest of the way, gazing down at the dizzying sight below.

They’d made it high enough to have something to land on, the roofs of the smaller buildings waiting beneath him. But the closest rooftop was at least a story below them, and Dutch found himself faltering.   

“Ladies first, Van der Linde.”

Dutch pointedly ignored the other man, smiling to himself. He stepped into the window’s threshold, gripping the edges as he raised himself to the windowsill. 

The law was gaining on them, still shouting, readying their weapons. Dutch took a breath, closed his eyes and launched himself forward. 

He landed sooner than he’d expected, just managing to tuck his head under his shoulder and roll onto his side as he landed, gripping the edge of the roof to keep himself from sliding off. 

Dutch glanced up, just in time to see Hosea land beside him, shaken and pale, but still breathing. He was already scrambling to his feet, Dutch following suit just as furious shouts came from the open window. 

“They’re down there!” The lawmen stepped onto the windowsill, eyeing the jump anxiously before changing course and firing his weapon. “Get up here and shoot them!” 

The outlaws ducked behind the chimney, dodging the man’s bullets, Hosea turning to shoot the firing lawman in the shoulder. The man screamed, stumbling over himself as he fell in between the crevice of the rooftop, tumbling to the alley below. 

“Let’s go!” Hosea called, grabbing Dutch’s arm to pull him from their cover. Rooftops were harder to run on than dirt, Dutch holding out a hand to steady himself, terrified of slipping and falling over the edge. 

They turned a corner, both holding their breath as they jumped to another rooftop, Dutch determinedly not looking at the street below him. A fall like that could easily break his neck if he landed the wrong way. 

The rooftops had quickly turned into a deadly maze, making it to another jump almost immediately. Hosea slowed, shooting at a lawman pursuing them dangerously close from the ground, shoving Dutch forward. 

The distance was larger than it had looked from further away, the building across from them a few inches higher, and Dutch’s stomach lurched when he almost didn’t make the leap, desperately grasping the edge as he pulled himself up, dropping to his knees. 

“Hurry up, Hosea!” he called, using his vantage point to pick off the rest of the men below. “I’m leaving without you if you don’t get your ass up here!” 

It was a blatant lie and they both knew it, but Hosea finally lowered his weapon and started forward, eyeing the jump with unease. 

His feet left the ground, Dutch rushing forward to meet him as the man’s hands found the brick just below the roof, eyes widening when his nails scraped against the smooth wall. 

Dutch grabbed Hosea’s arm just as he began falling, dropping his gun in favor of grabbing both hands, holding his breath as he dragged the other outlaw onto the roof. 

“Jesus,” Hosea muttered, trembling as he struggled to his hands and knees. 

“The roofs were your idea, Matthews. Come on, we’re losing them.” 

Dutch dragged Hosea to his feet, picked up his gun, and continued along the rooftops, constantly glancing over his shoulder as they ran. 

There was a gunshot, but it sounded too far away to be aimed at them. It was a warning, and Dutch strained to hear the law’s furious voices. 

“They can’t get far!” 

“Keep looking! The bastards are around here somewhere!” 

They clambered onto another roof, running along the edge, and Dutch found himself focusing on the steady footsteps directly behind him. 

“Balcony,” Hosea said curtly. “To your left.” 

Dutch nodded, skidding to a stop as he dropped to a crouch, sliding his legs over the roof’s edge. He dropped silently beside the balcony door, peered through the window to make sure there was no one inside, and went to work on the lock. 

Hosea dropped a second later, pressing himself against the pillar, watching the street with his weapon held at his chest. 

“Where’d we end up?” 

“Hotel,” Hosea said, voice low as he fingered the trigger. “Get us inside.”

As if on cue, the door finally came unlocked, Dutch cautiously pushing the door open as he glanced inside the quiet room. He stepped aside, beckoning for Hosea to enter. 

“Ladies first.” He grinned, pulling the door shut as he followed behind. “Think we lost them?” 

“For now,” Hosea said, moving around the room to pull the curtains closed, lighting the lantern beside the bed. “We should stay here until it gets dark, then figure out how to get the hell out of this town.” 

Dutch nodded, hooking his fingers under the dark wood dresser and sliding it in front of the door. There were muffled noises from downstairs, voices, but nothing that sounded like the law. 

“We need to get Arthur.” 

“We’ll get him tonight,” Hosea promised, sinking to the hotel’s bed. “With any luck, Colm’s trapped here too. Arthur’s right where we left him.” 

“Right,” Dutch scoffed. “Alone and hurt on the side of the train tracks.” 

“Alive and waiting for us,” Hosea corrected. “He’ll be ok, Dutch. He can make it a few hours.” 

The room fell silent, the town coming back to life as the shooting finally died down, the lawmen losing sight of the fleeing criminals. 

Dutch lowered himself to the floor, leaning back against the edge of the bed, ignoring the feeling of Hosea’s watchful eyes on him. 

“It’ll be ok, Dutch.” 

“What if Colm’s right?” The words hung in the heavy air, Dutch swallowing as he stared down at his lap. “We almost got Arthur killed today. We don’t even know if he’s--what if we’ve just made things worse for him? What if we’re trying to be...what if we’re trying to be something we’re not?” 

He could practically feel Hosea’s frown, listening to the man shift against the blankets of the bed. “You saw the way he was living.” 

“I know,” Dutch said. “I  _ know,  _ Hosea. Thank god we found him when we did but...what if we...Hosea, what if we’re…?”

He looked up as Hosea moved off the bed, kneeling beside him, his hands moving to Dutch’s shoulders. 

“I love Arthur like a son,” he said. “And I know you do, too. He needs us, and no matter what Colm says, we need him too. Not just for jobs, not for...whatever else people might think. They don’t know us, so don’t listen to them. Alright?” 

Dutch found himself nodding, Hosea setting his worries to rest with ease. It had always been like that, the other man was the only one who seemed to understand his mind, the first man Dutch had allowed himself to trust. Hosea was Dutch’s only proof the world wasn't always as cold as it seemed to be. “I’m sorry, I just--” 

“I know,” Hosea assured, and Dutch knew he did. “We’ll get him back. Arthur’s right where we left him, and we  _ will _ get him back. Everything’s going to be fine.” 

Dutch nodded, smiling softly when Hosea’s hand rested over his own, the two men leaning against the end of the bed, quiet as they thought of the child they’d been forced to leave behind. 

They would go back for him tonight, no matter how many lawmen were waiting for them. Dutch’s gaze landed on the small streak of sunlight, waiting, hoping that for once, the world would let it be so simple. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't have a ton of time so this chapter is a bit shorter, but I had a lot of fun writing it. Thank you for reading!


	4. Chapter 4

The remaining O’driscoll didn’t stay to fight, didn’t even try to hold his ground, picking up his gun and fleeing out the back door as more shots fired from outside. 

Arthur stayed where he was, curled up on the floor, shivering from pain and fear as he waited for the gunfire to die down. There was no familiar yelling or boasting from outside, the shots wild and random, nothing to indicate it was Dutch, but Arthur still found himself hoping for the best. 

He didn’t have to wait long, the homestead quieting in seconds. The O’driscoll was long gone, and for the moment that was all that mattered. 

The door swung open, slamming against the wall as a man with a shotgun pushed his way inside, scanning the room with his weapon. 

“It’s just a boy!” he screamed over his shoulder. There were more noises outside, voices and agitated horses, and Arthur tensed. “We’ve got a boy!” 

The pain had rendered him useless, Arthur only able to hold his hands up in front of his chest as the shotgun was shoved in his face, glaring at the man hovering over him. 

He was filthy, hair overgrown and matted, teeth yellow and rotted, his eyes wild and unseeing. His clothes were tattered and stained, and Arthur’s blood ran cold when he caught sight of the necklace he wore. The string was decorated with teeth, Arthur almost sure they were human, stained with blood and dirt. 

Dutch had warned him, countless times, of the dangers of a man’s mind, of their violence and hatred, of their tendency to hurt people for the sheer enjoyment of it. Dutch saw the world for what it was, a land of cruelty and blood, Arthur having already experienced it first hand. 

But he’d only heard stories about people like this, people who made  _ trophies  _ out of their victims, men who didn’t have the sense to understand the awful brutality of what they were doing. Men who had motives most couldn’t even begin to comprehend. 

He could see that look in this man’s eyes, cold and bloodthirsty, almost  _ inhuman,  _ hardened by the animalistic lifestyle rather than the world that had shaped men like Dutch and Hosea. 

Arthur wanted to scream, wanted to run as far away from these people as he could, broken bones seeming like the least of his worries now. 

But the front door opened again and another man stepped inside, just as menacing as his partner, and Arthur knew the only escape was a bullet to his gut. Judging from the noises outside, there were still more of them, more men with human bones as morbid jewelry, and he was trapped, an intruder in their home. 

“Where’s your friend, boy?” the man with the tooth necklace asked, grinning, gun level with Arthur’s head. 

“He ain’t my friend,” he snapped, no longer caring that his voice was shaking. He sounded exactly like what he was, a lost, terrified child. “I’m just trying to get home, please, I--” 

The gun was being shoved forward, the barrel hovering just inches from Arthur’s eye. He froze, falling silent, furiously blinking away tears. 

“Don’t be scared,” one of the men jeered, the shotgun raising slightly. “You’re just what we need, kid.” 

Arthur scanned the floor, eyes drawn to the jagged pieces of broken glass spread around the deep crimson seeping into the wood, spread around the O’driscoll’s lifeless body. 

The way these men were looking at him, Arthur thought he might prefer the O’driscolls. 

But he wasn’t defenseless, wasn’t going to just lay there and let himself get shot. Keeping a careful eye on the cackling men, the one with the gun briefly distracted by his friend, Arthur slid his hand forward, searching blindly. 

He touched something cold and his breath hitched, fingers wrapping around the broken shard. 

There was a hand reaching for him, and Arthur didn’t give himself time to think before he was plunging his weapon into the man’s thigh, scrambling to his feet and yanking it from his skin. 

Arthur clutched the glass in his hand, his only lifeline, ignoring the ripped skin and blood streaming down his arm. He bolted, dashing for the front door with no clue of what he was supposed to do when he got outside. 

If he even made it that far without someone shooting him in the back. 

He thought he heard an angry snarl behind him, a vicious threat overpowered by another man’s hearty laugh. Arthur didn’t care, didn’t turn around to look at who was following him. 

He didn’t stop when he made it to the front door, shoving it open and pushing his way into the open air, the fragile wood porch creaking dangerously beneath his weight. 

And then something slammed against his side, nearly knocking him off his feet, hands grabbing and pulling, trying to keep him still. 

Arthur ignored the sharp pain in his side, working to keep his broken wrist limp as he swung wildly with his good hand, the blood-stained scrap of glass finding nothing but air to sink into. 

He kept trying, flailing like the captured animal he’d become, screaming and kicking, fighting wildly to break out of the man’s hold. 

A hand closed over his own, and Arthur’s only weapon was gradually pried out of his grip, the edge of the glass slicing open his palm as it was ruthlessly pulled away. 

“Let go of me! Let me  _ go!”  _

“Come on, kid,” the man said, Arthur renewing his struggles as he heard more footsteps approaching. “You should be feeling honored, you know.”  __

“Been so quiet around here,” a second man mused, Arthur screaming wordlessly when he felt more hands grabbing at him, dragging him forward. “Thought we might have to head into town for some blood.” 

Arthur wasn’t listening, overcome by blinding fear and pain, forgetting his broken bones as he thrashed. He felt his heart stop at the sound of a squealing door, just managing to catch sight of the dark cellar being pulled open. 

He could hear himself screaming, could hear the gleeful men around him talking, everything droning into one jumbled swarm of noises his panicking brain could no longer understand. 

“I’ll kill you!” Arthur found himself threatening, his anger the last thing he could latch onto. “I’ll kill  _ all _ of you! You hear me? My  _ family _ is on their way, they’ll kill you! Dutch Van der Linde is going to  _ kill  _ you!” 

They were the same words he’d shouted in vain to the O’driscolls, spoken solely for himself, empty threats lost on uncaring men. 

A lantern was lit somewhere behind him, and Arthur was able to get a look at the dark cellar they were dragging him into, the sight making his stomach roil. 

The walls and dirt floor were covered in dark stains, rusted weapons and odd tools strewn absently around rickety shelves and chairs, the room plagued with the stench of death. 

Arthur didn’t stop his screaming and kicking, uselessly trying to stop their descent. One of the men grabbed a fistful of his hair, slamming his head against the side of the wall, and his struggling abruptly stopped, vision briefly turning black. 

“Save your strength, boy,” someone said, voice hazy and distant. “It’s an important week, and you ain’t giving us much to work with.”

Arthur had no idea what the words meant, wasn’t sure he wanted to understand, his focus currently on trying to pull himself from the gray haze the blow to his head had dunked him under. 

He had to get away. Dutch and Hosea wouldn’t be able to find him down here, they wouldn’t even know where to start looking. 

But surely they’d be able to find the O’driscoll’s tracks and follow them back to the homestead. It might take a few days, but they would come for him. 

If they were even still alive. 

He didn’t know much about Colm, but he knew the O’driscoll wasn’t like these men. He was insane and bloodthirsty, but he wasn’t crazed and stupid. If killing Dutch quickly was the safest move, he’d have done it as soon as Arthur was out of sight. 

Or maybe, just to worsen Dutch’s hurt, he’d put Hosea through similar treatment. Maybe none of them were getting out of this alive, the small family ruthlessly torn apart. 

They’d made it to the bottom of the stairs, the men holding Arthur firmly in place, their nails digging into his arms.

There were two chains hanging from the ceiling, the sight snapping him awake as he was pushed and pulled forward.

A man of Dutch’s height could have easily reached the chains with his feet still in the dirt, but Arthur was nowhere close to mirroring his frame. 

They lifted him from the ground, holding him still as they shackled his wrists. He cried out as the metal clamped around his broken bone, no longer able to stop the tears as they let him go, leaving him to swing, hanging inches from the ground. 

He knew he was talking, pleading and begging around his screams, but at this point he couldn’t even begin to make out what he was saying, the new burst of pain drowning out all of his senses. 

He thought he might have been calling for Dutch and Hosea, his last chance at salvation, his words lost to the cold cellar. 

“What’s the matter, tough guy?” someone mocked, Arthur squeezing his eyes shut as snickers filled the room. “No more fight in you?” 

There was a hand on his chest, shoving him backwards, leaving him to rock back and forth, the movements reawakening his screams despite the fire in his hoarse throat. He kicked frantically, desperate for any kind of relief on his shattered wrist, but he wasn’t even close to reaching the ground. 

There was movement from the staircase, a menacing shadow blocking what little sunlight filtered into the dark, musty cellar. 

“Will someone shut him up?” 

Arthur’s swinging was beginning to slow, screams dying down to agonized whimpers, involuntary tears still burning his eyes. The voices around him were quieting, and he tensed when he felt someone step around behind him. 

There was a hand on his chin, keeping Arthur from moving his head as his jaw was pried open. Any noise of pain or protest was effectively cut off as a gag was jammed into his mouth, tightly tied in place. 

Someone placed a bucket underneath his hovering feet, the blood from his shredded hand steadily dripping into the container. 

He could only watch as one of the men stepped closer, stained glass shard in his hand, pressing it against Arthur’s shoulder without warning. He pushed down, slicing through the cloth of his shirt, digging into his arm until he cried out from behind the gag. The noise was muffled and useless, only leaving him more exhausted.

But he couldn’t stop his shaky whimpers, biting down on the cloth as the glass dug into his shoulder, moving slowly, cutting the skin all the way down his arm, the man just barely able to reach above his wrist. 

Fresh blood poured down his arm, the man brightening as it dripped into the bucket, finally pulling the glass out of Arthur’s skin. 

“Ain’t a lot of kids around here,” he said, wiping bloody hands on his shirt. “We’re not used to someone so small. I don’t think he’ll last very long, boys.” 

There were noises from around the room, fake sympathy and disappointment, all overpowered by chilling laughter. 

There was a hand on Arthur’s face, brushing hair out of his eyes with a gentleness that only made Arthur ache for his family. The man laughed when Arthur shuddered and shook his head, pulling back with a grin to rejoin the others by the stairs. 

“Don’t worry, kid,” he assured. “We’ll take it slow.” 

Arthur closed his eyes as the laughter faded, struggling to breathe around the gag and bloody nose, breath hitching with each unbearable wave of pain. 

He heard the cellar door slam shut and risked opening his eyes, seeing nothing but the darkness he'd been left alone to bleed in. 

  
  


 

Dutch didn’t speak, eyeing the windows warily as he worked to untie the reins from the hitching post, Hosea moving in silence beside him. 

Their own horses were nowhere in sight, either gunned down by O’driscolls or waiting patiently beside the station at the other town. It was just one more piece of familiarity they were separated from. 

The knot finally came undone, and Dutch carefully led the horse away from the quiet building, Hosea doing the same. The town was unnervingly quiet, the patrols minimal, but he knew better than to trust their sudden stroke of good luck. 

The outlaws mounted their stolen horses, shared a knowing glance, and bolted down the empty streets. 

They moved quick and quiet, soothing the agitated horses as much as they could, always looking over their shoulders, tense and waiting for a gunshot. 

But moving through side streets, back alleys, and avoiding the town’s main entrance, they found themselves riding into open fields without trouble, veering off in the direction of the train tracks. 

“Hell of a day,” Hosea mused. “Arthur's going to want every detail of that chase.” 

“I think he’s had enough excitement for one day,” Dutch said, though he heard the statement for what it was; Hosea’s quiet reassurance to himself that Arthur was alive. “Any idea where he...where he fell?” 

“There was a bridge going over a creek a few miles back. Colm threw him after we passed it. He got lucky.” 

Dutch just nodded, trying to ignore the rising feeling of dread in the pit of his stomach, spreading with each moment Arthur was out of his sight. He risked a glance to Hosea, the other man expressionless, riding alongside the tracks as he scanned the landscape. 

Dutch forced himself to steady his breathing as he rode forward, pushing down his useless panic, control faltering when he caught sight of a rickety bridge and no sign of life. 

“Hosea?” 

“Turn around,” he snapped. “Spread out. He's here, we'll find him.”

Dutch did as he was told, grabbing and lighting his lantern, Hosea doing the same as they split off in either direction. He was losing himself to his panic now, illuminating the dark fields with the small flame. 

“Arthur!” He ignored Hosea’s identical calls from the other end of the field, focusing only on the quiet night air, waiting desperately for a response that didn’t come. “Arthur, answer me!” 

He wasn’t thinking about the law anymore, no longer caring about any awaiting O’driscolls. He called for Arthur until his voice was hoarse, venturing further and further into the fields, Hosea’s voice gradually fading into silence. 

There was nothing, Dutch’s chest growing tighter and tighter the further he trekked into the empty fields. 

Arthur could have hit his head when he fell and fallen unconscious, or dragged himself further away in a confused state of panic. Or he’d been found by more O’driscolls and taken somewhere Dutch wouldn’t be able to get to him. 

_ “Arthur!”  _ He had no idea how far he’d gone, no idea where Hosea had gone, clinging to the hope that the other man had better luck than he did. “Where are you? Arthur! Arthur, can you hear me?” 

He wasn’t sure how long it had been. The night was still dark, but the dawn couldn’t be far off, most of the night passing since they’d started searching. 

There was still no sign of Arthur, no sign that anyone besides them had ever stepped foot in this area. Colm couldn't have gotten out of town so quickly. There was no way he'd gotten to Arthur again. 

“Dutch!” 

He hadn’t even heard the approaching horse, too caught up in his own rising hysteria, turning just in time to see Hosea riding towards him. For a second, he allowed himself to be hopeful, breath catching in his throat when he realized the other man was still alone. 

He rode closer, illuminated by the gentle glow of the lantern, and Dutch noticed just how alarmed he looked. 

“We have to go.” 

“Did you find him?” Dutch demanded, already knowing the answer, following Hosea in the opposite direction they’d come from, back to the town that got them into this mess in the first place. “Hosea, what happened?” 

“Met some fellas camped near the creek,” he explained, voice tight and wavering, expression blank. “Said that...said that some kid was picked up by the law. They saw the wagon heading into town and said...said he matched Arthur’s description.” 

Dutch’s heart sank further and further with each word, guilt and fear threatening to choke him as he listened, waiting for Hosea to finish. 

“They’re going to hang him,” he said, and fear turned to determined fury. “They’re going to hang him when they get into town.” 

Dutch clutched the reins in shaky hands, trying not to picture Arthur, alone and scared at the gallows, the guilt of not getting to him sooner becoming overwhelming.

“How long?” he asked, almost afraid to hear the answer. 

“They said it was a few hours ago.” 

He could tell Hosea was mentally calculating the distance to town, how long it would take, whether the horses could make it there in one trip. 

“They won’t hang him,” Dutch promised. “They won’t. We’ll get there in time, Hosea. We’ll get him back.” 

There were no more words shared between them, only a furious yell to their stolen horses as they lurched forward, tearing through the empty fields. 

They rode through the night, cold and terrified, Dutch’s mind only on getting to Arthur before it was too late. 

He stared at the road ahead, blocking out the world around him, ignoring the run-down homestead tucked away in the trees. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Kaspooky for helping me brainstorm things to do to poor Arthur for this story! I love you for enabling my sadistic mind.  
> Thank you for reading!


	5. Chapter 5

Dutch couldn’t remember a time he’d pushed a horse this hard before, the poor animal probably seconds from giving into its exhaustion and pitching into the ground. 

But Dutch was ruthless, refusing to slow for even a second, forcing the horse to speed up with each passing hour. Hosea was right by his side as he always was, his own horse enduring similar treatment.

“Come on!” he shouted, not sure whether it was for the horses, Hosea, or himself.  _ “Move!”  _

The dawn came too quickly, miserable, gray and cold, the frigid wind piercing against his skin as they thundered through the grass.  

The first streaks of sunlight were already filtering into the sky, streaking across the green scenery by the time the rooftops came into view. They were still too far, but Dutch ignored the voice in his head insisting they were too late. 

They wouldn’t have time to be stealthy, to get Arthur out of town silently. Not if his hanging was scheduled for the morning. They’d have to charge right into town with their guns blazing, Dutch more than willing to fight his way through an army of lawmen if it meant saving the boy’s life. 

It didn’t matter how dangerous it was. He could handle it if it meant getting his family out alive. Arthur wasn’t going to die scared and abandoned like the day he’d been found. 

The sun was in Dutch’s eyes by the time they rode into town, the horses kicking up dust as they struggled to stay standing, grunting and screaming in pained protest as they were finally allowed to slow. 

“Find the sheriff's office,” he ordered, ignoring the glances from passing townsfolk, the town already awake and busy. “We’ll blow open the goddamn cell if we have to, just…”

He was almost too focused on scanning the buildings to notice the change, only turning to see Hosea’s horror when the other man screamed. 

_ “No!”  _

He was already taking off down the path, civilians jumping out of the wild horse’s way, and the world seemed to slow when Dutch finally saw what had caught Hosea’s attention. 

The gallows at the edge of town were occupied, a small crowd already gathered at the bottom, three prisoners lined up with sacks over their heads. Dutch bolted after Hosea when he saw the child at the end of the line, fighting furiously against his bonds as the rope was shoved over his head. 

Hosea was screaming for them to stop as they rode for the open clearing, shouting Arthur’s name to let him know they were coming.

Dutch stayed silent, fumbling for his gun, hoping he was close enough to get a clear shot of the rope. They hadn’t been too late. They were too close to have it end like this. Arthur wasn't dead yet. They could still save him. 

His own desperate assurances came to a screeching halt as Hosea’s screams proved futile. The lever was pulled and the prisoners dropped, Dutch’s world coming to a stop when the now lifeless child swung freely from his broken neck. 

He thought Hosea might have been yelling, his words pained, furious, and defeated, but Dutch couldn’t hear him, pulling the horse to a stop beside the gallows just as the crowd began to dissipate, going on with their ordinary lives like Dutch’s heart hadn’t just been shattered. 

He dismounted, suddenly feeling weightless, fighting to keep from crashing to his knees as soon as his feet hit the ground, the gun falling from his shaking hands. 

The lawmen were making their way down the stairs, leaving the unclaimed boy’s body behind, and Dutch had to restrain himself from setting fire to the entire town, murdering every one of these savages. 

There was a hand on his arm, Hosea’s presence doing almost nothing to comfort him for the first time. “Dutch…” 

He was beyond listening, beyond consoling, barely managing to shove Hosea away and make it a few steps to the trees before he was on his knees, dry heaving onto the grass. 

The exhaustion, grief, and revulsion hit all at once, his vision tunneling, the world spiraling out of focus. He’d been too  _ late.  _ Arthur’s neck had snapped right in front of him, the boy dying believing he’d been abandoned, left alone, his last moments spent in terror. 

And there was nothing he could do because he’d been too  _ slow.  _ Because he’d been reckless, let Arthur get hurt, get taken from him. He’d gotten him killed in a town that saw him as nothing but an unwanted, unloved child. 

“Dutch!” 

He could hear Hosea’s voice, but couldn’t bring himself to listen. He didn’t want to face the blame Hosea had every right to put on him. He couldn’t stand to see his broken heart, to see his own pain mirrored in the other man. 

He didn’t want to see the gallows, the dead body of the boy he’d just begun to call a son. 

“It’s not Arthur, Dutch, it’s not him!” 

The words were just barely registering, something in Dutch’s mind latching onto the desperation, to the way Hosea didn’t sound like his world had been crushed.  

“Jesus Christ, Dutch. _ Breathe. _ Breathe, you moron. It ain’t him. It’s not him, Dutch, it's ok. You’re ok.”

And the meaning of the words finally got through to him, Dutch managing to pull in a shaky breath, chest and throat feeling tight and uncomfortable, everything still dark and spinning. 

“I checked, Dutch,” Hosea said, gentle and slow. “Just some poor kid arrested for robbing. It wasn’t him.” 

Dutch nodded, finally understanding. It wasn’t Arthur, and it was never going to be. They weren’t going to leave him for some small town to hang, reduced to nothing but a kid on the street with no one to claim him. 

Hosea was crouched beside him, rubbing circles along Dutch’s back as he worked on controlling his breathing. He refused to look back at the gallows, to see the face of the half-starved boy that had looked too much like Arthur. 

He wasn’t on the end of a rope or locked in a jail cell, but the comfort the knowledge brought didn’t last long. Dutch turned to Hosea, the lingering question reawakening his panic. 

“So where the  _ hell _ is he?” 

  
  
  


 

The men weren’t gone for long, the cellar door soon pried open once again, blinding sunlight flooding into the darkness Arthur had been left in. 

He squinted as laughter filled the stairwell, eyes watering against the sudden brightness, forcing back a whimper as someone came trudging down the stairs. 

He wanted to go home. He wanted to see Hosea’s gentle smile and hear Dutch’s voice. It didn’t even matter if they spilled the blood of the men who had done this. Arthur didn’t need his family to kill for him, he just needed them to  _ be  _ here. He just wanted to  _ leave.  _

“Rise and shine, kid!” 

But Dutch and Hosea weren’t here, and there would be nobody to show him mercy. 

“I hope you don’t mind,” the man said, casually, walking to one of the shelves out of Arthur’s view. “We need to borrow something from you.” 

Arthur couldn’t respond even if he wanted to, the gag wrapped painfully around his head, stealing his voice. Despite the sunlight, the cellar was still dark and littered in shadows, Arthur barely able to see what the man was doing as he moved back to the chains. 

There was something in his hand, something metal, and the sudden burst of panic renewed what little strength Arthur had left. 

He kicked out, groaning when it did nothing but worsen the pain in the broken wrist forced to support him, the man jumping back with an amused laugh. 

“Still got some fight in you?” he sneered, turning to the open cellar door. “Can I get some help down here?” 

Summoned by the glee in his voice, more men appeared in the entrance, swarms of voices, all eager to see Arthur’s distress. 

He did all he could to fight back as they came closer, knowing it was useless, refusing to simply hang there and let them do what they wanted. Dutch would want him to stay strong. 

“The more you struggle the more this will hurt,” someone said, strong arms grabbing Arthur’s swinging legs and holding them still. “It’ll be over soon.” 

There was a second man with a hand on his head, the gag suddenly loosened and ripped from his mouth. Someone grabbed his jaw tight enough to bruise, fingers hooking under his lip and prying his mouth back open. 

Arthur was trapped, suffocated, kept practically immobile as the man with the metal tool stepped forward, still smiling. 

Something was shoved in his mouth without warning, making him gag, eyes widening when he felt metal wrap around his back tooth, cold and secure. 

Arthur tried to pull away, tried to clench his jaw and bite down, but the grip on his jaw was too strong, the hand continuing to keep his mouth open. Someone twisted their fingers painfully in his hair, keeping his head completely still. 

He met the eyes of his captor, pleading, a frantic part of him hoping to see some kind of pity, a sign that he might be able to get through to him. 

Arthur should have known better. 

The metal around his tooth tightened, pulling ruthlessly, and Arthur screamed. He thrashed, trying with everything he had to kick out against the men holding him, but the hands on his legs and head only tightened, keeping him helpless. 

His screams grew louder as the pain grew worse, fiery agony shooting through his skull, his tooth savagely twisted and dug from his mouth. His cries were muffled and pointless, doing nothing but making the men laugh. 

Arthur was crying, face burning as tears streamed down his face, body wracked with sobs that only worsened his torture, further weakening his beaten body. 

He’d never been hurt like this before. He’d been beaten before, kicked and punched, thrown around like he was nothing, but somehow this was worse. Hanging like a piece of meat, screaming against the gradually worsening torment, unable to move or see anything but cold, mocking eyes. 

Arthur felt his tooth loosen, suddenly finding himself choking on his own warm, metallic blood, screams slowly dying down to a guttural wheeze as he tried to remember how to breathe. 

The man with the pliers pulled up, Arthur’s back tooth finally ripped away, and the metal was pulled from his mouth. The hands on his face were gone, releasing their bruising grip as the men finally stepped away, leaving Arthur to hang freely once again. 

“Well, look at that!” The man held up the bloody tooth in front of Arthur’s face, and he quickly shut his eyes and looked away, whimpering against the insufferable throbs spreading through every inch of his body. 

There was the clattering of metal, and Arthur forced himself to peel his eyes open, realizing the tooth had been dropped into the bucket already filled with his blood. 

“That wasn’t so bad, was it?” 

Arthur tried to tell the man he could go straight to hell, but he was still choking on his own blood, the thick crimson sliding down his throat and flowing down his chin. It made breathing nearly impossible, and he closed his eyes again, suddenly feeling like he might vomit. 

Arthur wished he had kept his eyes open. At least then he would have had some kind of warning before the gag was shoved back into his mouth, the cloth immediately sodden with blood. 

He gagged violently as it was tied around his head, more tears spilling out as he fought against the heaving. Maybe he would end up choking on his own vomit and this would all come to an end. 

There was suddenly a sharp pain in his side, Arthur’s eyes flying open as he screamed against the gag, blood pouring down his throat no matter how hard he tried to cough it back up. 

The man still had the jagged piece of glass Arthur had used in a last ditch effort to defend himself, digging it through his shirt and into his skin, slowly sliding it across Arthur’s stomach, smiling as the blood flow made its way into the bucket.  

The glass was pulled away with a nauseating sucking sound, leaving his soaked, oozing skin. Arthur groaned into the soaked gag, realizing for the first time just how hard he was shaking. 

There was a hand cupping his cheek, a cruel gesture meant to mimic the comfort out of Arthur reach, and he was too weak to do anything but flinch. 

“You know,” the man said, leaning in close. Arthur’s breath hitched when he saw the glass shard still in his hands, wet and sticky with blood. “My leg hurts like a  _ bitch.”  _

There was a bandage wrapped around his thigh, the man standing with most of his weight on his good leg, and Arthur couldn’t help but smile to himself. At least he’d managed to piss someone off. 

“You’ve got pretty eyes, boy.” The man’s words just worsened Arthur’s shivering, watching as the glass was raised to be level with his face. “Think you can manage with just one?” 

He pulled his hand back and Arthur screamed before he could stop himself, kicking wildly, eyes frozen on the jagged end of the glass moving towards him.

One of the other men grabbed his wrist, pulling him back, stepping in between the feral man and the shackled child. 

“Pete, don’t! You’ll kill him!” 

The second man’s alarm sounded genuine, and Arthur stupidly allowed himself to feel a spark of hope. He should have known it would be crushed just as quickly. 

“They won’t accept him if he’s  _ dead,” _ he said. “We bleed him out  _ first.  _ And we do it slowly. Then you can take whatever you want from the kid.” 

Pete turned back to him, grinning, lowering the glass back down to his waist. “You hear that, boy? Nice and  _ slow.  _ We’re gonna have fun together.” 

The men laughed, turning their backs and heading for the stairs again, Arthur’s head heavy and spinning, the pain a constant wave of agony that only seemed to grow worse with each breath. 

They left him alone again, and Arthur shut his eyes against the darkness, the pain keeping him from falling asleep. 

 


	6. Chapter 6

It wasn’t something Dutch would admit out loud, but he had absolutely no idea what he was supposed to do. 

It didn’t happen often, not when Hosea was at his side, both men fueled by a mutual goal. But today was one of the few times the rising tension kept them from figuring out what to do next. 

“We need to go back.” 

“And do what?” Hosea demanded, eyes exhausted and bloodshot. “He’s not there, Dutch. We looked--” 

“Then we’ll  _ keep  _ looking!” 

“He wouldn’t have been able to get far on his own,” Hosea said. “Wasting time won’t make him appear.” 

“We’re wasting time by staying in this god awful town doing  _ nothing!”  _ Dutch was vaguely aware he was shouting, attracting curious stares and annoyed glares from the townsfolk, but he didn’t care, fueled only by Hosea’s quiet resignation.

The older man sighed, running a hand over his face. “If we didn’t get to him, the O’driscolls probably did.” 

Dutch’s world came screeching to a stop, feeling numb and weightless at the words, Hosea’s voice hardly the whirlwind of panic and fury he would have expected. 

“Then we go back into that town, find Colm, and we--” 

“And we will get ourselves killed,” Hosea argued. “You know we can’t risk heading back there right now. Colm’s probably long gone, anyway.” 

Dutch blinked, suddenly speechless, cold panic setting deep in his gut at the thought of Arthur in the hands of O’driscolls with no way for them to get to him. No way for them to even start  _ looking.  _

“Then what the fuck are we supposed to do?” his voice dropped to a whisper, wavering under the strain, and he realized bitterly that he wasn’t angry, he was afraid. Deeply, deeply afraid, the helplessness of the situation threatening to unravel him.

“I don’t know, Dutch,” Hosea admitted. “I really--” 

“Because I will tear this goddamn country  _ apart.  _ I will find Colm and I will rip him apart piece by fucking piece if I have to!” 

Hosea just nodded, calm and collected as always. But this time, his control was only driving Dutch further off the edge. “I know. I know, Dutch, and you know I’ll do the same, but--” 

“Really?” Dutch snarled. “Because it doesn’t seem like it.” 

Something flickered in Hosea’s eyes, the older man stiffening, but Dutch didn’t relent, didn’t allow himself to feel guilt, meeting his eyes steadily. 

_ “What?”  _

“That boy--” Dutch paused, choosing the words carefully, realizing for the first time how much weight they held. “Is like a son to me, Hosea. I love him like a son.” 

“I do too,” Hosea said tightly. “We’re  _ all  _ family.” 

“Then why are we still here? Why aren’t we doing a damn thing? You want Arthur to end up like that little boy? Because  _ I  _ don’t! I want to find him before the O’driscolls  _ kill  _ him, and blow Colm’s head off for even  _ looking  _ at him!” 

“Jesus, and you think I  _ don’t?”  _ They were both shouting now, too lost in their own fear to pull themselves away. “This isn’t just about  _ you,  _ Dutch. We ride into town without a plan, Colm will be gone and we’ll have done nothing but waste more time. Time we don’t have if we want to get Arthur out alive.” 

“The O’driscolls have him--”

“I  _ know,”  _ Hosea snapped. “And we’ll get him back. I swear to god, we’ll get him back because--because I don’t know what I’ll do if we don’t.” 

“Hosea--”

“But  _ you-”  _ Hosea stepped closer, the two of them inches apart, anger only flaring. “-need to stop acting like a damn child, and start acting like a father. Get ahold of yourself so  _ I _ can figure something out.”

The street fell silent, the civilians having long since moved to give the men space, crossing to the other side of the road as they passed. Dutch felt himself crumble under Hosea’s glare, looking to the ground and backing away. 

“Sure,” he muttered, taking another step, then another, suddenly needing to put as much distance between him and Hosea as possible. “Fine, Hosea, that’s  _ fine.  _ You do that, and I’ll go waste some more time.” 

“Dutch,” Hosea called, exasperated, maybe a bit apologetic, but Dutch didn’t care. He held up a hand, trembling, and Hosea fell silent. 

“Just…” his voice was weak and unsteady, giving away just how shaken he was. He wasn’t even sure  _ why  _ he was upset, why Hosea’s presence felt suffocating for the first time since they’d met, but he needed to leave. He needed to get away. “Just stay back, Hosea.  _ Please.”  _

And Hosea did, watching in defeat as Dutch turned his back and stalked down the street, clutching his belt simply to keep his hands from shaking.

_ Jesus Christ. _

The O’driscolls had their hands on a child, the boy Dutch called a son, and here he was, doing nothing but feeling sorry for himself. Because Hosea was right. There was nothing they could do. They had no leads, no tracks to follow, no idea where to even start. 

And Dutch, pathetically, found himself ordering a whiskey at the nearest bar. 

It’s disgusting. He’s furious with himself, with his own uselessness. So what if he didn’t know where to start? He should be out doing something,  _ anything,  _ not getting himself drunk to drown out his worry. 

But that was exactly what he was doing, the alcohol burning against his throat as he hung his head, letting himself fade out, focusing instead on the noises of the saloon rather than his own failure. 

“It’s  _ true,”  _ someone was insisting from one of the tables, and Dutch allowed himself to hone in on the loudest noise in the bar. “Damn savages those folk! Running some kind of...some kind of cult!” 

“You are so full of shit,” another man said. 

“I ain’t! Why do you think people keep going missing around here?” 

“What?” a third man asked. “Because of the  _ cult?”  _

“Yes, because of the cult! I’m telling you, they string people up and...and they--they take their fingers or...or something. But nobody ever comes back.” 

Dutch found himself drawn to the conversation, the brief numbness from the drink clearing slightly. 

“You don’t know what the hell you’re talking about,” one of them said. “He’s crazy.” 

“I ain’t!” the first man argued. “They kill those folk, I’m telling you. And I know exactly where they’re holed up.” 

“Well then, why don’t you take us there? Offer them your toes or something.” 

Dutch finally turned, peering curiously at the table by the window. There were three men, the one speaking of the cult wide-eyed and terrified. He didn’t seem drunk, and Dutch found he couldn’t turn away. 

“Hell no!” the man exclaimed, warily glancing around the saloon. “I ain’t getting...getting sacrificed to whatever messed up god they believe in! And it's the first week of the month!”  

“So?” 

_ “So,  _ that’s when someone always goes missing. It’s when they do their whole...ritual thing, I guess.” 

One of the men grunted, leaning back in his chair. “Who’s gone missing this time, then?” 

The first man just shrugged, gazing down at his drink. “Some poor drunk, probably. Or some kid wandering off by himself.” 

No. There was no  _ way.  _ The man was out of his mind, making up horror stories for attention. But Dutch stood from the bar, unable to shake his unease as he started for the table. 

And then something pressed against his back, Dutch instantly recognizing the cocking of a gun, barely audible over the bar’s commotion. 

“Why don’t you and I have a chat, Van der Linde?” The man’s voice was a breathy whisper, low and threatening, a hand tightening around his arm. 

“Of course,” Dutch said easily, gaze lingering on the men at the table. He didn’t have time for this. “But sir, I believe you have the wrong man.”

There was no response, and Dutch was veered away from the bar and towards the back door, no one sparing the two men a second glance as he was ushered outside. 

There were hands on his back as soon as the door was shut, shoving him forward, and Dutch landed hard on the cold ground. He held up his hands as he moved to his knees, shoulders hunched as he turned, only to find a pistol aimed right between his eyes. 

“Sir--” 

“You know,” the man started, smile almost giddy as he towered over Dutch. “Colm was gonna have my head. But can you imagine what he’ll do when I bring him Dutch Van der Linde’s corpse?” 

Dutch took a breath, eyes glued to the gun. “He’ll probably shoot you anyway. That man kills for sport.” 

“And you don’t?” 

Dutch finally adjusted his gaze to meet the O’driscolls eyes, smug and triumphant. “No. And I’m...a bit more forgiving. Tell me, what’d you do to make him so upset?” 

The panic was clouding his mind, the exhaustion and worry nearly succeeding in making him stumble over his words, his last remaining lifeline. 

“Oh, I messed up real bad, Van der Linde,” the O’driscoll said, like the two of them were old friends. “I was supposed to deliver that boy of yours.” 

Dutch felt his heart stop, chest growing cold. “Where is he?” 

His anger was resurfacing, overpowering any plans to stall, to save his own life. All he could see was this man, talking about Arthur like he was already dead. 

“Don’t see why it matters to you,” the O’driscoll said, adjusting the grip on his weapon. “You ain’t walking out of here alive.” 

Dutch met his eyes, unblinking, and for a heartbeat he thought he saw the O’driscoll falter, like the man forgot who was holding the gun. 

“Where is he?” 

“He’s  _ dead,”  _ the O’driscoll snapped. “Jesus, we took him to a cabin and some...some crazy hillbillies found us. Killed my friend before I could do a damn thing. I barely got out of there before--” 

“You just  _ left him  _ there?” Dutch wasn’t even thinking about the risk of a bullet to his head anymore. He was seeing red, barely restraining himself from charging forward and pounding the man into the floor. 

“Of course I  _ left  _ him. It’s just a kid--” 

“You  _ left  _ a  _ child.”  _ He’d almost  _ prefer  _ Colm had gotten to Arthur. At least O’driscolls were a threat he knew how to deal with. “You’re dead, O’driscoll. Do you understand me? I’m going to  _ kill  _ you.” 

Dutch’s words seemed to snap the O’driscoll back to reality, any hesitation in his eyes fading as he tightened his hold on the gun, keeping it steady. 

“Good luck with that.” 

There was a gunshot and Dutch flinched, watching as crimson blossomed across the man’s chest, mouth open in a soundless gasp. The O’driscoll coughed as his knees gave way, blood splattering across his chin, dropping his gun as he fell to the floor. 

“You alright?” 

Hosea was already hurrying forward from the other end of the alley, glancing over his shoulders for any witnesses, before stepping over the O’driscolls twitching body to help Dutch off the ground. 

His head was spinning, adrenaline coursing through his veins, a newly awakened determination. They might still have time. 

“Hosea,” Dutch croaked, ignoring the other man’s worry. He clutched Hosea’s sleeves as he was helped to his feet, already pulling them both back into the bar. “I think I know where Arthur is.” 

  
  
  


They wouldn’t  _ stop.  _

They just kept coming back, kept cutting into Arthur’s skin, watching his blood drip steadily into the bucket, never giving him time to recover in the punishment of darkness before they would appear again to continue the torture. 

He’d only managed to fall asleep once, giving in to his exhaustion despite the way it worsened the pull on his wrists. It had only felt like seconds, earning him nothing but a kick to his broken ribs, sending him swinging back and forth from the chains with a strangled cry. 

Arthur wasn’t even trying to stay quiet, no longer caring if they thought he was weak. He cried and fought each time a knife or glass shard dug into his skin, slicing across his arms, legs, chest, twisting into his side or stomach, breaking the skin of his face in a gentle caress. 

When that man- Pete, Arthur distantly recalled- would make his way down into the cellar, still limping from his injury, Arthur would always end up screaming into his soaked gag, the man’s anger just making the agony of the torment worse. 

With the other men, Arthur found himself begging, muffled pleads controlled by fear lost to their laughter. It was becoming nearly impossible to breathe, nose and throat clogged with blood, Arthur left to wheeze and hiccup through his shaking sobs. 

He wasn’t going home. He was going to die here, hanging from the ceiling, surrounded by cruel laughter as he finally choked his last breath. 

Dutch and Hosea weren’t coming. They were dead, most likely, but even if they’d managed to survive Colm there was no way for them to find him here, tucked away beneath an old homestead, miles from civilization. 

They’d blame themselves, he knew, once they accepted he was gone and stopped searching. Arthur couldn’t help but hope, selfishly, that they kept looking, no matter how pointless it seemed. He didn’t want to die here, alone, torn and shredded apart for whatever sick reason he couldn’t understand. 

Arthur hadn’t even realized they’d left him alone, the pain from the cuts, fresh and old, still burning unbearably, leaving him sobbing into the darkness. 

There was no way to tell how long he’d been here. The cellar door opened and closed so many times, he might have been down here for months. It hardly made a difference. 

The thought of falling asleep was terrifying, fading out only inevitably leading to more pain, to more anger from the men, but the exhaustion was impossible to fight. He did his best to block out the sound of his own blood pooling into the bucket, letting his eyes drift shut as he waited for the men to return. 

“Arthur?” 

Arthur’s head snapped up, eyes flying open, ignoring the white-hot pain the movement caused. Heart hammering in his chest, he blinked through the dim lighting, almost too afraid to believe what he was seeing. 

Dutch and Hosea were there, stepping into the cellar, watching him with wide, horrified eyes, and Arthur felt warm tears roll down his cheeks, shaking with relief. They’d found him. Somehow, they’d come for him. 

“Oh, god. Oh god, Arthur.” 

The men were rushing forward, scared and unsure, voices wary and broken. Arthur tried to call out to them, tried to promise them he would be ok, but the gag still rendered him silent, and he waited for them to remove it. 

“Arthur, no,” Dutch whispered, pressing a hand over his mouth. “Oh no, no, Arthur, please no,  _ no.  _ Oh, god, no. Hosea, he’s...Arthur, I’m...I’m so sorry, Arthur.” 

Dutch was struggling to breathe, eyes red and watery, and Arthur couldn’t understand. It was bad, everything  _ hurt,  _ but he was still alive. They’d gotten to him in time. 

Hosea was reaching out, hands hovering over the countless cuts and bruises, never closing the distance to touch him, to remove the agonizing bonds. They didn’t seem to hear his frantic cries behind the gag. 

Tears were running down the man’s face, shocked and horrified, his own breathing quickening as he took a step back, leaving Arthur chained to the ceiling. 

“We have to…” Hosea paused, voice breaking as he spoke. “We-we have to bury him. Bury...bury what’s left of him...Oh,  _ god,  _ Dutch…” 

Dutch wasn’t listening, pacing through the cellar and running his hands through his hair, finally pressing himself against the wall beside the stairs and sinking to the floor. 

Hosea didn’t move, staring ahead blankly, shoulders shaking as he sobbed. Arthur had never seen either of the men cry before. 

Arthur screamed into his gag, desperate for them to hear him, to get him  _ down.  _ He just wanted escape from the pressure on his wrist, an end to the strain of being suspended by a broken bone. His family was here, why weren’t they helping him?

Dutch and Hosea didn’t even acknowledge his cries, didn’t seem to notice that he was still breathing, that he was in pain. 

The relief vanished as quickly as it had appeared, replaced with a suffocating panic and blinding fear. Arthur kicked out, pulling against the chains in a new burst of frantic desperation, screams growing louder as the pain grew unendurable, washing over him like a tidal wave, spots dancing in front of his eyes as he continued to struggle, shouting for the men in front of him. 

His vision was going dark, and for a moment he wondered if they were right, that he really was already dead, his last waking moments spent terrified and abandoned. 

Suddenly there was a hand grabbing his face, and the only pain Arthur was able to register was the agony where his tooth used to be, the rest of his body fading back to the constant aching throbs. 

“Wake  _ up! _ You hearing me?” 

For a second, Arthur thought it was Dutch. But then Pete’s face gradually came into focus, disgusted and annoyed, and he knew he wasn’t dead just yet. 

“Screaming in your sleep,” the man muttered, pressing something sharp against Arthur’s chest. He was almost amazed that he still had blood to spill. He would have thought they’d drained him completely by now. “You’re a pain in my ass, you know that?” 

His fist slammed into Arthur’s stomach, sending him swinging backwards, the rattling of the chains lost to his concealed screams. Pete hit him again and again, each punch worse than the one before, and Arthur lost the fight against the nausea.

He was overpowered by gags and heaves as he swung, bile rising up his throat, only to be stopped by the already soiled gag. With nowhere to go, the vomit filled his mouth and slid back down his throat. More tears filled his eyes as he choked, kicking desperately. 

Pete grabbed his shirt, making Arthur dizzy as he was yanked to a stop. The gag was suddenly coming undone, and Arthur didn’t even have time to try and raise his head before he was throwing up onto the floor, shaking and heaving uncontrollably.

There wasn’t much in his stomach other than blood, his captors leaving him starved and dehydrated, but it still left his throat raw and burning, gasping for breath in between gags. 

He was hardly given enough time, still spitting vomit into the bucket and floor below him, when the same, filthy gag was jammed back into his mouth, Pete ignoring his struggles as he tied it tight around his head. 

“You done?” Pete asked. Arthur didn’t respond, all his energy spent on trying to breathe again. “Good. You’re lucky you’re needed alive for this.” 

Arthur didn’t feel lucky, squeezing his eyes shut to try and block out the awful taste of the cloth in his mouth. 

He was still cold and shaky, the pain and helplessness from the fading dream still lingering, his family’s pain somehow even worse than what he had endured. What he was still forced to endure. 

He knew the dream would become cruel reality soon enough, whether Dutch and Hosea found his body or not. He found himself crying harder, sobbing uncontrollably before the man even touched him. 

Pete just grinned, pressing the glass under Arthur’s chin to raise his head. “Now, let’s see if we can finish this up.” 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've really liked writing this story so far, as painful as it is.   
> In retrospect, "Can we pretend they always stayed this happy" might not have been the best choice for the opening notes...whoops  
> Thank you for reading!


	7. Chapter 7

“Where is it?”

The man had been sitting alone, gathering up his things to follow his friends out the door, skidding to a stop as Dutch grabbed his shoulder, shoving him back to the table.

Hosea just watched Dutch traumatize the poor man, every instinct telling him to step in and stop this, but he stayed back and kept quiet.

“W-where-where’s what?”

Dutch towered over him, eyes glassy with rage. “The  _ cult.  _ The damn cult that you seem to know so much about.”

“Why do you--?”

“Where’s the homestead?” he snapped, grabbing the man by the collar. “Tell me how to get there, or you’re a dead man! I’ll shoot you right here and now, do you understand?”

Hosea furrowed his brow, risking a glance over his shoulder, silently meeting watching eyes, suddenly wishing he’d demanded answers before he’d let them both storm inside a crowded saloon. Dutch had clearly heard something important. Or maybe he’d just finally lost his damn mind.

The man was rambling off directions, struggling to form words around his panic, and Hosea tuned back into the conversation, working to decipher the instructions.

If they left now, they might be able to arrive by nightfall. If Arthur was there, Hosea was fairly sure they’d already ridden past him in a desperate attempt to stop his alleged hanging.

“Y-you shouldn’t go there,” the man stammered. “You didn’t...they didn’t get a friend of yours, did they?”

Dutch fell silent, finally releasing the cloth of the shirt, glancing warily at Hosea before answering. “They got a kid.”

The man’s face fell, still pale and shaking. “Then I’m...I’m real sorry but it ain’t worth it. You’ll get yourselves killed.”

“But he’s alive?” Hosea asked, needing more than anything for the answer to simply be  _ yes.  _ “The kid?”

“They…” he trailed off, running a hand over his face. “Look, it’s just a local legend but they...they keep their victims alive. For the first couple days, at least. Apparently it...it pleases the gods or...or whatever if the...the  _ sacrifice  _ is still breathing when they...you know…”

“When they  _ what?” _

The man looked from Dutch to Hosea, shaking his head. “It ain’t pretty, Mister. And a kid ain’t gonna last long.”

Dutch was silent, watching the man carefully, and Hosea didn’t miss the tremor in his hand. He finally stepped away, starting for the door.

“He’ll be ok,” Dutch said, the words meant only for Hosea. “He can hold on a little bit longer.”

They stepped outside, Hosea beyond grateful nobody had run to get the law, and Dutch paused when he saw the two familiar horses hitched by the door, the stolen animals nowhere in sight.

“Found them by the station,” Hosea explained, already working to untie the ropes. “Right where we left them. Hopefully they’ll get us there in time.”

“They will.”

They mounted, Hosea still unable to push down his rising worry as they made their way through the streets. He took a breath, watching the other man cautiously. “If he’s even there at all.”

“He’s there,” Dutch promised, only worsening the ache in Hosea’s heart. “He’s there. We’ll get to him in time.”

Hosea, desperate to have the same blind faith, found himself nodding, pushing his horse out of town and back into the open fields.

 

The ride was similar to the first, the two of them silent as they sped forward, tearing through the country at a breakneck pace. They didn’t stop, the thought never even crossing their minds.

Like the first ride, he and Dutch were fueled by an unwavering determined desperation, the clock ticking down with each beat of the horse’s hooves. But unlike last time, Hosea couldn’t ignore his rising dread, couldn’t fight against the worry of what they were walking into.

The look in the man’s eyes had said enough. They’d wasted a lot of time, they might already be too late. And if Arthur wasn’t there...finding him again would be nearly impossible. This was their only lead.

The directions had been vague, and the trip took longer than Hosea had hoped, the moon steadily rising into the inky sky. He heard Dutch curse under his breath when they had to pick their way through the trees, struggling to see in the dark, searching for any signs of life.

It took too long, time stretching into an eternity, Hosea plagued with dark, traitorous thoughts of the state they would find Arthur in. Or what would happen to them if they didn’t.

Then there was a glint of gold, a small firelight tucked away in the trees, and Hosea and Dutch dismounted as they made their way through the forest.

It was an old homestead, the wood split and rotted, the walls peeling and run down, weeds and grass grossly overgrown. If it weren’t for the lights and noises filtering in through the window, Hosea would have thought the place was long abandoned.

“Everyone in there is dead,” Dutch sudden hissed, pressed up against the tree. “We go in there and we--”

“Be  _ quiet.”  _ The noises from inside were quiet and muffled, no one seeming to take notice of their presence. “We make  _ sure  _ Arthur’s here before we do anything stupid.”

Dutch hesitated, the man nearly drowned in his anger, and for a moment Hosea thought he might simply ignore the warning. But he eventually nodded, pulling the shotgun from his back as the two of them quietly crept to the front porch.

The men- or the cult, or whatever the hell they were- didn’t seem too worried about intruders, none of them alerted by the squeaking of the unsteady wood beneath the approaching men’s boots.

It was only when Dutch was finally allowed to give in to some of his anger, kicking through the front door with a wordless yell as he raised his gun, that the men finally realized they weren’t alone, reacting in chaotic panic.

There were three men, coated in the stench of blood and rotting flesh, showing off black teeth and tattered clothes as they leapt to their feet, fumbling for weapons as Dutch and Hosea burst inside.

A single shot into the floor quieted the room instantly, the men falling silent, watching the intruders like cornered animals.

“Where’s the boy?” Dutch demanded.

“Who the fuck--?”

“Where’s the  _ goddamn  _ boy?”

One of the men raised his head, smile smug as he stepped forward, watching Dutch cockily. “We ain’t got no boy here, Mister. Why don’t you--”

Dutch didn’t give him a chance to finish, lowering his gun and firing into the man’s knee, watching as he screamed and crumbled to the floor.

“We ain’t asking nicely,” Hosea said over the cries. You  _ kidnapped  _ a  _ child.  _ Tell us where he is or we burn this place to the ground.”

It was impossible to tell if Dutch’s glance was a look of gratitude for sharing the same surge of rage, or a look of worry in case these men were telling the truth.

“The kid was on our property,” one of them said, smiling in the face of Hosea’s gun. “Can’t blame us for taking what’s ours.”

“He ain’t yours,” Dutch snapped. “He’s a  _ kid.” _

The man held up his hands, still smiling. “Exactly. It’s just a kid, Mister. But we need him more than you do. We don’t need to shed blood over some--”

“I won’t ask you again.” Dutch cocked his gun, his aim steady and fatal, and the man seemed to relent, smile dropping into something more sincere.

“Alright, alright,” he said, and if Hosea hadn’t been so focused on the next words, he might have noticed the glint of silver sooner. “Gotta warn you, ain’t sure there’s much of him left.”

The man was lunging forward before Hosea had a chance to register the words, barely able to shout a warning to a fuming Dutch as a jagged knife was plunged towards his neck.

Dutch managed to grab the man’s wrist as the weapon was brought down, Hosea sending a bullet through his chest just as the second man ran at him with a snarl, the third still clutching his wound on the floor.

Dutch was faster than him, always had been, and there was a bullet lodged in the approaching man’s back as Hosea stumbled away from the falling corpse, finger still on his own trigger.

There was a splitting crash, the last man throwing the table on its side as he stumbled to the busted door, shattered knee trailing blood behind him. Plates and cups fell to the floor, shattering, the lantern following suit, the orange flame catching against the wood floor beneath Hosea’s feet.

“Shit!”

The man didn’t even seem to notice, dashing for the door in a panic, barely given time to scream as Dutch and Hosea both fired into his back, not even bothering to watch as he fell.

“Arthur!” Dutch screamed as soon as the man was dead. The fire was already beginning to spread, flames lapping at the walls of the flimsy house, smoke spiraling into the air. “Arthur, can you hear me?”

There was no response, and Hosea tried not to think about how his own panic was reflected perfectly in Dutch’s eyes.

“Check upstairs,” Hosea said, already moving to the hallway. “Hurry! We need to get the hell out of here and we ain’t leaving without him!”

Dutch nodded, still calling Arthur’s name as he traversed the rickety staircase, Hosea pulling open doors as he paced the rest of the house.

The place was quiet, calls remaining unanswered. It felt abandoned, empty and void of life, and a dark part of Hosea wondered if they were searching for a corpse.

He pushed the thought away, swallowing against the lump in his throat. Arthur was alive. He wouldn’t be able to handle it if he wasn’t.

Hosea pressed his sleeve over his mouth, breathing heavily, eyes watering as he stumbled back into the kitchen, the flames rising steadily. He cleared his throat, preparing himself to call out to Dutch, desperate for good news, when something caught his eye.

Through the window at the end of the kitchen, Hosea could just make out the door to a cellar tucked away in the grass, and his chest felt tight.

“Dutch!” His voice was drowned out by the roar of the flames. “Dutch, get down here!”

“Hosea!”

Any reply was lost to the shattering of wood, the walls and ceiling at the end of the kitchen collapsing, blocking the entrance, leaving Hosea trapped, the flames closing in around him.

“Dutch!” he screamed, no reply to his desperate call. He couldn’t lose Dutch, too. He couldn’t die without knowing his family was safe. He couldn’t let them all burn alive, the three of them separated in their last moments, unable to help each other.

He acted without thinking, ducking through the flames to grab the nearest chair from beside the overthrown table, sucking in a breath and slamming it against the window, watching as it shattered across the grass, letting in the cold night air.

“Dutch, get out!” Hosea’s heart sank when there was still no answer, only the sound of more of the house falling apart. He was losing himself to the panic now, voice turning frantic and broken. “Dutch! Dutch, answer me! Please!”

It stayed quiet, the fire only growing, looming above him, and Hosea knew he was out of options. With one last look at the burning homestead, he sent a silent prayer that Dutch would be able to find a way out and pulled himself through the broken window, landing in the grass amongst broken shards. 

Hosea staggered to his feet, spinning back around, eyes wide as he stared at the engulfed house. Every instinct told him to run back inside, to do everything he could to ensure Dutch made it out of the fire. Even if it killed him.

But rushing back in would only make everything more complicated, solidifying both of their deaths. And if Hosea was right, there was a child in the cellar they couldn’t afford to leave behind.

With a shaky breath he turned away, pulling the cellar doors open, and cautiously started down the stairs, the light from the fire illuminating the dark walls.

The cellar reeked of blood and sickness, making Hosea’s stomach churn as he made it to the bottom, squinting through the darkness. The sight before him made his world come crashing to the ground.  

The boy hanging from the ceiling was almost unrecognizable. Arthur’s face was blackened and bruised, coated in dried blood, lips still wet with dripping crimson.

His clothes were covered in rips, body decorated in countless cuts and purple bruises, most of the injuries still dripping heavily into the bucket placed below his suspended feet, and Hosea tried not to dwell on how full it already was.

For a terrifying moment, Hosea thought Arthur wasn’t breathing, his legs threatening to give out beneath him under the crushing realization that they’d been too late once again.

And then Arthur blinked, watching Hosea through red eyes, giving no reaction to the man’s presence. There was a gag pressed painfully tight in his mouth, but the boy didn’t even try to talk against it, didn’t even seem to care that Hosea was slowly starting forward.

“Arthur,” he tried, holding out a hand as he approached, the lack of response somehow more terrifying than anything Hosea could have found. “Hey, it’s me. It’s me, Arthur, I’m here.”

There was still no movement, Hosea fighting to keep from falling apart as he reached behind Arthur’s head, working to untie the torturously tight gag around his head.

As soon as the cloth began to loosen, Arthur’s eyes widened, something in his mind finally seeming to click as the gag was gradually pulled away. He blinked, like he’d just managed to comprehend there was someone else in the room.

“H...Hosea?”

Arthur’s voice was so shaky and weak, hesitant, like he was terrified it was some kind of dream or cruel trick, and Hosea couldn’t help the tears that filled his eyes.

“It’s me, Arthur,” he promised, letting the gag fall to the filthy floor as he tried to figure out what to do next. Arthur was chained to the ceiling, his head slightly above Hosea’s, the boy still shuddering in pain as he bled.

Arthur’s eyes suddenly widened, breath hitching, Hosea reaching out a hand to steady him as he whimpered.

“Pete,” he said, almost too quiet to hear. “P-Pete’s still here...he’s...Hosea, he’s still here…”

“Who the hell is--?”

Hosea never got the chance to finish, something slamming into his side and knocking him to the ground. His gun fell from his hand, clattering to the floor and out of his reach.

There was a man on top of him, slamming his fist into Hosea’s face, and he thought he heard Arthur scream.

He assumed the man was Pete, just as disgusting and sadistic as his friends, hands stained with the blood of a defenseless child.

“You come to take your boy?” Pete taunted, once again sending Hosea’s head crashing into the ground, face exploding in pain. “I can’t let you do that. The brat’s ours, now. We  _ own  _ him.”

Hosea’s vision tunneled, everything overshadowed by the blinding urge to  _ kill  _ this man, to feel Pete’s blood on his hands as he watched the life drain from his eyes. He’d tortured a child, tortured  _ Arthur,  _ tried to tear his family apart for the sake of sick satisfaction.

He kicked out, the end of his boot finding Pete’s gut. But the man was bigger than him, stronger than him, and he kept the upper ground, knuckles finding Hosea’s face again and again, hand now wet and sticky with fresh blood.

_ “We _  need him! We use him until  _ I  _ say he’s done. He ain't going nowhere!”

Pete’s fingers found his throat, clamping down and squeezing. Through the ringing in his ears and his own strangled chokes, Hosea could hear somebody else’s cries.

“Stop it!” Arthur’s voice was achingly weak, his scream more a panicked, breathy whisper, the boy struggling to form words. “Stop it, please,  _ please! _  Let him go!”

The choking didn’t stop, Hosea struggling helplessly, but Pete was suddenly rearing back, turning to where Arthur was still shackled, dangling helplessly.

“You shut your mouth, you little shit! You’re next, you hear me? But I’m taking my time with you. It’s only getting worse so you just--”

Hosea buried his fist into Pete’s gut, gasping for breath when the hands finally left his throat, jamming a knee into the man’s chest to send him reeling backwards.

The gun was a few paces away, and he didn't waste any time dragging himself forward, reaching out to grab the handle.

His fingers had just grazed the weapon when something clamped down on his ankle, Pete laughing from behind him as he pulled, dragging Hosea back.

He kicked blindly, struggling to move forward, stretching as far as he could until he was able to hook his finger around the weapon, managing to wrap a hand around the handle as he was pulled back.

“Or maybe I’ll let you  _ watch  _ him die,” Pete snarled, flipping Hosea onto his back. “You want to hear him scream? Watch him bleed out?”

Hosea could only imagine the choice words Dutch would have for this man, his silver tongue doing more damage than any weapon could. But he wasn’t Dutch Van der Linde, and he didn’t need words to express his fury.

Hosea brought the gun up in front of him, watching with a grim smile as Pete’s eyes widened, bravado faltering. He pulled the trigger, firing into the man’s stomach, pulling himself to his knees when he stumbled back.

But Pete was still breathing, and Hosea was still shaking with rage.

He shot him again, watching as his shirt was quickly stained red with the red waterfall from his chest, Pete falling to his back as he breathed in stranged gasps, clutching desperately at his wound. Hosea carefully moved forward, crouching down beside the panicking savage.

He grabbed Pete by the collar of his shirt, pulling him up, meeting the wide, crazed eyes as he pushed the barrel of the gun into his bloody mouth, leaning in close.

“You’re not touching him again.”

Hosea fired, finally letting go and leaving the body to lay in its own blood. He rose to his feet, all anger gone, his focus only on the whimpering boy still hanging from the ceiling.

There was a glint of silver sticking out of Pete’s pocket, a single rusted key on a chain, and Hosea could only frantically hope it was what he thought it was.

“Arthur,” he said, wiping away the blood on his face with his sleeve. “Arthur, he’s dead. It’s ok.”

_ “No.”  _ He could barely hear Arthur’s choked plea, realizing the boy’s eyes were closed, tears streaming down his face. Hosea took a step forward, and Arthur tensed. “No, no, please no,  _ no.” _

“Arthur--”

“Please stop,” Arthur whispered, and Hosea felt his heart break. “Just stop. Please,  _please._ Stop hurting me, please, I...I can’t I...I  _can’t--”_

“Arthur,” Hosea tried, not sure what else he was supposed to do. He was terrified to touch him, to cause any more pain. “Arthur, it’s me. It’s Hosea, you’re safe. Open your eyes, Arthur, please. Look at me.”

“Please, don’t…”

_ “Look  _ at me, son.”

Arthur furrowed his brow, still shaking with terror, but he gradually peeled his eyes open, blinking as he struggled to focus on what was in front of him.

“Hosea?”

Hosea nodded, suddenly unable to speak around the growing lump in his throat, smiling sadly as he fumbled with the key he’d taken from the dead man.

And then Arthur began to sob, shaking from the force of it, crying out when it pulled on the countless injuries.

“It’s over,” Hosea promised, ignoring his own tears. “We’re getting you out of here, alright?”

Arthur managed a nod, glancing up at his restraints. “Do...do the right hand f-first. It--it’s broken.”

Hosea’s stomach twisted at the words, but he nodded and moved to do as he was told. He couldn’t even imagine how badly that hurt.

The key fit, the shackle around Arthur's broken wrist giving way, Hosea moving to let the boy's arm fall across his shoulder.

“Almost there, Arthur,” he assured. “Just keep your arms around me when you fall, ok?”

Arthur responded only with a quiet whimper, and Hosea quickly unlocked the other cuff, working to support him as he fell, crying out against the sudden release.

“I’ve got you,” Hosea said, carefully repositioning Arthur as comfortably as he could. He held him against his chest, Arthur’s arms and legs wrapped tightly around him, his head buried in the crook of Hosea’s neck. “Let’s get out of here.”

“Thank you.” Arthur’s whisper was barely audible, and if they hadn’t been pressed so close Hosea might not have heard. “Thank you, thank you,  _ thank you.” _

Hosea just held him tighter, carrying them both to the stairs, seeing for the first time that Arthur might not have realized getting him back was never a question.

Hosea brought them into the open air, Arthur still shaking, sobbing, and bleeding against him, and he quickly turned away from the burning house.

“Don’t look, Arthur,” Hosea said, moving one hand to wrap around Arthur’s head as they moved away from the fire. “You’re ok, now. We’re all ok.”

But Dutch was nowhere in sight, the fire only continuing to spread, and the relief of finding Arthur was now battling with the thought of still losing a part of his family.

He wanted to run back into the house even if it killed him. Anything to get to Dutch and give him a chance of surviving this. But he knew he couldn’t. He couldn’t leave Arthur yet.

Hosea slowed to a stop, lowering them both to the grass, holding Arthur as he let the boy lean against his chest. Dutch just had to make it a few more minutes, give him time to calm Arthur down and figure out what to do.

“Hosea?”

Dutch’s voice, jagged and broken as it filled the quiet field, was the best noise Hosea had ever heard. He pressed a hand over his mouth as he fought back a sob, raising his head to meet Dutch’s eyes.

The other man was covered in black soot, frantically scanning the broken homestead, eyes widening when his gaze landed on Hosea and Arthur. There was a beat of silence, and Dutch was racing forward.

“He’s ok,” Hosea announced, absently running a hand through Arthur’s hair. “He’ll be ok, it’ll be ok.”

He was still talking, repeating the relieved mantra when Dutch finally made it to his side. He dropped to his knees and Arthur tensed, breath catching in his throat as he clutched Hosea tighter.

“It’s me, Arthur,” Dutch said, voice gentle and steadying. “It’s ok, Arthur, it’s just me. It’s Dutch. You’re safe now, son. You’re safe.”

Arthur slowly raised his head, bloodshot eyes locking onto Dutch’s, and suddenly he was rushing forward, arms wrapped around the man’s chest. Dutch didn’t hesitate for a second, pulling the boy closer and wrapping him in a tight embrace.   

“You’re ok, Arthur. We got you, son, you’re ok. Nobody’s going to hurt you, I promise. You’re safe, we’ve got you.”

Dutch reached out to take Hosea’s hand, the three of them scooting closer, the small family finally brought back together.

Arthur took a shaky breath, still clutching Dutch and Hosea like lifelines, his cries gradually dying down. “Th-thank you.”

“Of course,” Dutch said, all his anger seeming to have disappeared the moment he saw Arthur take a breath. “You’re family.”

“Come on,” Hosea added, his smile genuine for the first time in too long. “Let’s get you home.”

Arthur nodded but didn’t pull away, and Hosea realized none of them were in a particular hurry to move. As long as they were together again, they were already home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been sick lately, so this chapter took a little longer to finish. It's a bit longer though, so I hope you enjoy! Thank you for reading!


	8. Chapter 8

The grim silence was cut short by Arthur’s cry of pain, Dutch pulling back as the boy tensed, pressing a hand against his jaw, squeezing his eyes shut as his breathing became labored. 

“Arthur?” The panic was resurfacing and Dutch moved to his knees, scanning the countless, bloody injuries he hadn’t fully registered before. 

But Hosea was already scooting closer, back in control, and Dutch was reminded just how grateful he was for the level-headed man. They still had a lot to worry about, still had unimaginable damage to repair, but they were together again, and for the moment, that was all Dutch needed. 

“It’s ok,” Hosea said, soft and gentle as he held Arthur’s shoulder. “Just breathe, ok? You’re ok, I’m right here.” 

Arthur was struggling, fighting for each breath, his nose clotted and dripping red. Blood was pooling out of his mouth, thick and heavy as it slid down his chin, staining bruised skin. 

He looked to Dutch and Hosea, fear and pain set deep in his eyes, and Dutch was sure he was mirroring Arthur’s panic in his own gaze. 

But Hosea just smiled, no trace of the furious emotional mess he had been reduced to just hours before, carefully cupping Arthur’s face in his hands. 

“Let me see,” he instructed, softening when Arthur’s eyes turned wary. “I’m just trying to help, son. Nobody’s going to hurt you anymore. I promise.” 

Arthur, still tense and shaking, glanced from Hosea to Dutch, before finally loosening and opening his blood-stained mouth. 

Dutch found himself drawn to the boy’s arms and legs, stomach twisting when he realized just how many cuts there were. Some were small, others were long, jagged and deliberate. 

Arthur’s wrist was bent, black and swollen, the broken bone held limply in his lap. Through the tattered shirt, Dutch could make out similar bruising across his side, and he felt his anger clawing its way back up to the surface. 

The men were dead, he reminded himself. Everyone who had touched Arthur, who had done this to a  _ child,  _ was dead. But it wasn’t enough. They hadn’t suffered like his boy had, they’d died  _ quickly.  _ It was more mercy than they deserved, and there was no way to take it back. 

“Christ,” Hosea muttered, bringing him back down to earth, futile anger set aside in favor of urgent concern. “I’m so sorry, Arthur.” 

Arthur shrugged when Hosea pulled his hand away, looking to the ground as his bottom lip began to quiver, a fresh wave of tears pooling in his eyes. 

“I couldn’t...I couldn’t stop them,” he admitted, voice small and ashamed. “I’m sorry I couldn’t...I tried to fight but they--” 

“It’s ok,” Dutch said, fighting the urge to reach out and touch him, terrified of making things worse. “You’re ok, now. We’ll get you some help.” 

Arthur nodded, wincing at the motion and pressing a hand back to his jaw. Dutch didn’t have to see the injury to guess what had happened. 

“Can you walk?” Dutch asked, already knowing the answer. Alongside the worrying about of blood he’d lost, Arthur had no doubt been starved, dehydrated, and deprived of sleep the past few agonizing days. 

He shook his head, hunched over himself, tears still falling as he stared at the ground. “S-sorry, I don’t--” 

“It’s ok, Arthur,” Dutch promised, hating the shame in the boy’s voice, like it had been  _ his  _ fault he’d been captured. “Come on. Put your arms around my neck.” 

As bad as things had gotten, they’d all been lucky. Dutch tried not to think about how close they’d been to getting here too late, to losing Arthur forever. His mind briefly wandered to that poor little boy who’d been hanged, alone, no family fighting to get back to his side. 

Looking at Arthur now, starved, scared, and shaking, Dutch was suddenly reminded just how young he was, and how much he’d already gone through. No other child would have been able to stay strong like this, and through his own guilt, Dutch felt a sense of immeasurable pride. 

Arthur slowly did as he was told, whimpering as he moved his torn arms, Dutch helping the best he could. Hosea was behind him, supporting Arthur’s back as Dutch lifted him from the ground. 

He flashed a grateful smile, realizing for the first time Hosea’s face was covered in his own blood, skin already bruising. But the older man didn’t seem concerned, and Dutch decided not to ask, focusing instead on the child in his arms. 

“We need to get him to a doctor,” Hosea said. He turned away from the flames of the house, the three of them starting for the woods where the horses were waiting. 

“I’m ok,” Arthur said as Dutch nodded. His words were slurred, but they sounded desperate, like he needed them to understand. “I-I’m ok. I’m ok, I’m ok.”

“We know, Arthur,” Dutch said over his delirious murmurs, holding him tighter as he quickened his pace. “Just let us help you.” 

They made it to the horses, picking their way through the woods, and Arthur’s ragged breathing eventually began to even out, face pressed into Dutch’s coat. He didn’t mind, reassuring his lingering doubts with Arthur’s quiet heartbeat. 

  
  


 

“You’re sure there’s nothing closer?” 

Dutch ignored the doctor’s irritated sigh, knowing he was pushing his luck, taking the hastily scribbled note the man held out to him. 

“He’s the best dentist in the area,” the doctor explained, crossing his arms. “It’s a bit of a ride, but if there’s anything to be done, he’ll do it. And for a good price, too.” 

Dutch nodded, turning back to the flimsy bed in the corner where Arthur was leaned against the wall, covered in freshly applied bandages, a now empty bowl of stew perched in his lap. 

Hosea was beside him, the man’s coat draped over the boy’s shoulder, talking softly as he glanced over every injury still visible. The damage had been worse than they’d realized, but there wasn’t much to do other than fight infection, wait, and help Arthur get his strength back.

“His mouth’s bleeding again,” Hosea said, visibly fighting to keep the distress out of his voice as he addressed the doctor. Blood was gathering around the corner of Arthur’s mouth, the dark red liquid dripping steadily down to the bed. 

They’d ripped out his tooth. The doctor said it looked like someone had clamped down on his molar, twisting and pulling ruthlessly until it came free. Based on the way Arthur had shuddered, the description hadn’t been far off. 

The doctor sighed, moving to one of the cabinets and pulling out a small brown rag, starting back to the bed. 

“Here,” the man said, kneeling beside him. “Let’s have you bite down on this until the bleeding stops. Alright?” 

The doctor moved to press the cloth to the boy’s bleeding mouth, and the reaction was immediate.

Arthur pulled away with a strangled gasp, eyes going wide in terror. He kicked out, just narrowly missing hitting the doctor in the face as he scrambled back. 

“Arthur!” Hosea reached for Arthur’s shoulder, raising his eyebrows in surprise when he practically threw himself forward, wrapping his arms around Hosea’s torso. 

Dutch could only watch, frozen in place, cold realization dawning. The red marks imprinted along Arthur’s cheeks had been the least of their worries, and were already beginning to fade, but now it was clear why the cellar had been so quiet when they’d arrived. 

He could only imagine what Hosea had seen when he’d finally found him, tied up and gagged in that cellar. Dutch was almost glad he’d been in too much of a hurry to share the details. 

“Hey, it’s ok.” Hosea quickly came to the same conclusion, gently wrapping a hand around Arthur’s back, the other stroking his hair. “Nobody’s trying to hurt you, we’re just trying to help.” 

Arthur’s breathing turned to small hiccups as he fought back sobs, trembling against Hosea’s chest, looking just as terrified as when they’d found him. 

“Sorry,” he said, quiet and pained, his voice like a knife to Dutch’s heart. “I-I’m so sorry, I just--” 

“Don’t be sorry. Please don’t be sorry, Arthur, you’re fine. We understand, I promise.” 

His hand moved to hold the back of Arthur’s neck, still talking quietly, soothing. Dutch took a breath, astounded at how easily Hosea could regain control. 

The doctor stood with a huff, tossing the rag to Hosea as he brushed himself off, stalking back to his desk. 

“You alright?” Hosea asked, smiling gently when Arthur nodded, his hold loosening. “Good. Do you want some water?” 

Arthur nodded again, and a moment later Dutch had brought back a full glass from the other room, Hosea helping the boy lift it to his mouth, his unbroken hand still weak and shaky. 

Arthur coughed when the water mixed with blood, struggling to swallow, but the cool liquid seemed to help, his eyes clearing slightly, the shaking lessening as Dutch rubbed his back. 

Hosea let Arthur wipe away the blood on his own, both men giving him space as he pressed the cloth against the blood flow, Dutch watching as it soaked through. 

“He’ll be popular at the dentist,” the doctor scoffed, smiling innocently when Dutch turned on him. “Panicking like that.” 

“He’s been through a lot.” 

The doctor hummed, watching curiously. “Anything the law needs to hear about?” 

The room fell into heavy silence, Dutch suddenly reminded of the town they’d left behind and the stolen cash still tucked away in their satchels. It made him sick to think about what he’d nearly lost for the money, and the urge to get rid of it was overwhelming. 

“I think we’re done here, sir.”

He rifled through his bag until his hand closed around the cash, the feel of it making his stomach drop. He didn’t know how much it was, didn’t even care. He just wanted it gone. No amount of money would be worth what Arthur had endured. 

Dutch shoved the wad of cash towards the doctor, ignoring the way the man’s lip twitched as he took it hungrily, eyes gleaming with greed, letting his patient go without any further questions. 

Dutch felt some of his frustration return at seeing the man’s neglect, stomach twisting uneasily. 

If Arthur had been with anyone else, O’driscolls, murderers, even his own god awful father, too many people would look the other way if it benefited them. It was too easy to do nothing. Even if it led to the death of a child. 

Arthur looked determined to walk as Hosea took his hand, helping him stand from the bed, both men moving to steady him as his bandaged legs wobbled dangerously. 

Dutch knew Arthur needed to regain his independence, to fight for the control that had been taken from him, and walking on his own again was the first step. 

But the longer they stayed, the more danger they were putting themselves in. They wouldn’t be able to drop their guard until they were miles away from the two towns that had nearly ripped them apart. 

They couldn’t let Arthur move at his own pace just yet. They’d gotten him back, and once they were all safe he could finally recover the way he needed to. 

Hosea seemed to share his thoughts, speaking with a silent glance towards Dutch as he kneeled beside Arthur’s frail frame. 

“Do you want me to carry you?” he asked, smile warm. “Just so we can get the hell out of this dump?” 

The words made Arthur smile, his grin genuine, and Dutch felt something in his chest loosen. 

Arthur wrapped his arms around Hosea as the man carefully lifted him, much like Dutch had done, sparing the distracted doctor a curt nod as the three of them pushed open the door and started down the quiet street. 

Getting Arthur back on a horse was out of the question, not when every little movement seemed to make him wince or cry out.

With what money they had left, they hired the town’s stagecoach, handing the driver the written instructions as they helped Arthur into the coach. 

“You doing ok?” Dutch asked, sitting beside him as Hosea slid inside to sit across from them. 

Arthur nodded, struggling to keep his eyes open, hissing in pain as the stagecoach lurched forward. “Did you...did you kill Colm?” 

It was meant as a joke, Arthur’s unrefined attempt to lighten the mood, but Dutch couldn’t help the regret clawing at his chest. 

“No,” he admitted, hating how impassive Arthur seemed to the answer. “But we killed his men. They’re all dead, son. Everyone who hurt you.” 

Arthur nodded, slow, exhausted brain working to understand. “Thank you.” 

Hosea bit his lip, and Dutch pretended not to see the wetness in his eyes, struggling to ignore the way his voice broke when he spoke. 

“Of course. Of course, Arthur, we’re  _ family.  _ I’m so sorry that this happened but it won’t again. Never. We’ll find Colm and we’ll…” he paused, glancing helplessly at Dutch. “We’ll be ok. You’ll never have to see him again.” 

They both knew it was a lie, that until Colm had taken his last breath he would be a threat, but he wouldn't touch Arthur again. Not if they had any say in it. 

“Get some rest,” Dutch said, knowing his words weren’t needed, Arthur's eyes already closing. “You’ve earned it.” 

Arthur leaned his head against the stagecoach window, fading without another word. Dutch smiled halfheartedly at Hosea, feeling his own exhaustion set in, the other man looking equally worn down. 

“He’s ok, Dutch,” Hosea promised, but his words were lost. With his worry finally gone, Dutch lost the fight against the approaching darkness, finally letting himself drift away. 

 

Dutch jolted awake to something falling against his shoulder, alarms immediately going off in his head, mind blanking as he briefly forgot where he was. 

The small gasp brought him back, memories flooding when he saw Arthur blink his eyes open, dazed and confused from where he’d fallen against Dutch’s side. 

“Sorry,” Arthur whispered, gritting his teeth as he worked to sit up. “S-sorry, I didn’t mean to--” 

“For the love of god, Arthur, stop apologizing.” 

He furrowed his brow, still looking painfully unsure, and Dutch smiled fondly, lifting up an arm. 

“Come on,” he offered, Arthur meeting his eyes warily. “I know it’s not as good as a real bed, but it’s better than the window.” 

Arthur smiled again, scooting closer and leaning against the man’s side, sighing quietly as Dutch draped an arm over him, the boy’s head rested on his shoulder. 

“Thank you.” 

Dutch shook his head, hating how uneasy the two simple words had made him feel since they’d gotten Arthur back. 

“You don’t need to thank me, son,” he said. “Men are...well, you know what men are like. But I’ve told you, we ain’t them. And we’ve got you.” 

He glanced to the seat beside him, smiling affectionately at the sight of Hosea, sound asleep with his long limbs stretched across the confining space of the coach. 

“Hosea and I,” he continued, turning back to Arthur. “We’ve got you. No matter where you are or...or what you’ve done or how old you are. We’ll always be family. You ain’t getting left behind.” 

The stagecoach fell silent, quiet breaths drowned out by the turning of wheels, and for a moment Dutch thought Arthur had already fallen back asleep. 

“I love you.” 

The words made Dutch’s throat tight, but his smile only grew around it, seeing clearly for the first time since he’d pulled Arthur off the street. 

He thought he might have fully realized it as soon as he’d seen Colm with his hands around the boy’s neck, but Arthur wasn’t just some kid to use on jobs, a starving orphan he’d taken pity on. 

Arthur was his son. He and Hosea meant more to Dutch than any dreams he had, any plans they’d made for the future. 

“I love you, too.”

They were family, had been since the day they’d met, the three of them constantly working to save each other’s lives. Dutch needed them by his side, and he knew he’d do anything to keep them there. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The end!!  
> I really really loved writing this story, as much as it hurt my heart. Young Arthur is so much fun to write, and I really enjoyed exploring the younger versions of Dutch and Hosea.   
> Like I said before, sorry the upload schedule for this story was a little weird, but thank you all for still reading and commenting! It really makes my day!!

**Author's Note:**

> Wow, young Arthur is so much fun to write can we pretend they always stayed this happy?  
> I'll be pretty busy these next few weeks, though hopefully, I will still be able to write and upload as consistently as usual. But don't worry if uploads are a little slower for this story, I'm still writing!  
> Thank you for reading!!


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